


Life is a dance floor, love is the rhythm, you are the music

by Korrigan131



Series: The F1 Coffee!Verse [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Idiots, M/M, Only one braincell between all of them, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 77
Words: 106,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korrigan131/pseuds/Korrigan131
Summary: The little town of Fia sits on the coast, and exists in almost perpetual sunshine.Aka: The F1 Coffee!VerseSet mainly in the 2012 season.Individual characters not tagged. Pairings listed in no particular order.
Relationships: Christian Horner/Martin Whitmarsh, Daniel Ricciardo/Jean-Eric Vergne, David Coulthard/Jake Humphrey, Esteban Gutiérrez/Sergio Pérez, Felipe Massa/Rob Smedley, Fernando Alonso/Mark Webber, François Cevert/Jackie Stewart, Jaime Alguersuari/Mark Webber, Jaime Alguersuari/Sebastian Vettel, Jaime Alguersuari/Sébastien Buemi, Jenson Button/David Coulthard, Jenson Button/Jake Humphrey, Jenson Button/Nico Rosberg, Jenson Button/Sebastian Vettel, Karun Chandhok/Bruno Senna, Kimi Räikkönen/Jaime Alguersuari, Kimi Räikkönen/Sebastian Vettel, Lewis Hamilton/Adrian Sutil, Nelson Piquet Jr/Nico Rosberg, Paul Di Resta/Nico Hulkenberg, Rubens Barrichello/Nico Hulkenberg, Tommi Parmakoski/Sebastian Vettel, Vitaly Petrov/Bruno Senna
Series: The F1 Coffee!Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025593
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm doing a spring clean of my fics, I thought it was high time to post the longest thing I have ever written. It's probably going to take a couple of weeks to reformat and post the whole thing.
> 
> Originally a kinkmeme reply over on Livejournal, then on my own journal, then on Tumblr, all the way back in 2012.
> 
> I will be the first to say that it has _not_ aged well... It is a chronically unbetaed melodrama of a soap opera, populated with awful characterisations, and with large chunks written and posted at speed and others edited until I was sick of the words. I had an absolute blast writing it at the time though!
> 
> I'm also splitting it into two works - one for the main plot, one for the flashbacks and flash-forwards.
> 
> Also I gave it a title. At last.
> 
> Sort of warning I suppose for some _incredibly_ unhealthy relationships with alcohol, and terrible coping mechanisms in general.

The Red Bull Bar is shut at this time on a Monday afternoon, and the navy walls are sapped of their colour by bog-standard fluorescent strips, instead of the multi-coloured strobes and lasers that usually light the place. Clubs are always slightly eerie places out of hours, so the stereo is on to help dispel the weirdness, the bass beat of Big Bad Wolf thumping even through the comparatively small speakers of the boombox.

“You really shouldn’t show off like that.”

Seb is standing behind the counter in the empty bar, flicking the cocktail shaker up into the air, catching it behind his back, whilst pouring spirits into another glass that’s somehow also soaring through the air.

“It’s fine, Mark, I know what I’m doing…”

The sound of the glass smashing on the floor attracts a shout from the back office that is still clearly audible even over Mark’s almost deafening laughter.

“Seb! If that was you, you bloody well have to clear that up!”

“Sorry boss…”

“You know what you’re doing then, eh Seb?”

Sebastian glares at Mark as he puts the bottle down and goes on the hunt for the dustpan.

“At least I never break them on the night. That’s the whole point of practice. You know it’s the show as much as the drinks that brings people in.”

Mark huffs. “At least I’m _there_ on the night. You better not pull off the same disappearing act that you did last week again. And don’t think Christian didn’t notice that both you and Tommi went AWOL at the same time…”

Seb looks scandalised. Mark just raises his eyebrows, and makes an exit before Seb can think up a comeback. He needs a coffee…


	2. Chapter 2

Café Ferrari. The oldest coffee shop in the town of Fia. A place of _History_ , where antique wood panelling meets cutting edge coffee-brewing technology. A place renowned for pushing the boundaries of coffee-making, where the equipment is state of the art, even experimental (and occasionally to the point of _explosive_ …). Local legend has it that Old Man Enzo himself was the first one to introduce coffee to the region. And whilst the shop itself goes through a refit practically every year, the colour scheme never changes: red, with highlights in yellow, black, and white.

But even places with that much History have their own day to day problems.

“What do you mean you broke it _again_ , Felipe?” Stefano sighs, slumping in his seat behind the huge mahogany desk, surrounded by countless awards, rubbing his forehead. “Ok, I will call the repairmen, hopefully they can be over today.” Felipe slips out of the office with his head down. “ _Jesu_ , the boy’s a liability sometimes,” Felipe can hear Stefano add to himself, as he closes the door behind him.

“Anyone would think you were trying to break it.” The Spanish barista is leaning against the counter, arms folded, looking far too amused by Felipe’s misery.

“Shut up, Fernando, I am on cleaning duty now as it is.” Felipe snatches up the spray and the cloths dejectedly. “And is not my fault, is just, there are so many _buttons_ …”

“I can use it no problem.” Fernando raises a significant eyebrow. “So it has nothing to do with the huge crush you have on the guy they keep sending out, then?”

“Shut _up_ Fernando! I don’t know why it breaks, it just does.”

Fernando leans in conspiratorially. “Sure… I can see why though, after all, you get a very nice, _view_ when he works under the counter…” Felipe blushes furiously. “Just ask him out, and save us all the pain of watching you two attempting to flirt.”

“I do not flirt!” Felipe blinks. “Wait, you think he flirts with _me_?”

Fernando laughs. “Well, if you can call it flirting… But he likes you, for sure.”

Felipe can’t stop blushing, but maybe, just maybe…

“What do I have to do to get some service around here, eh?” The two baristas turn at the sound of the familiar, rich Australian accent, which belongs to the dark haired man in the navy club-logo-covered tshirt, who is currently leaning on the counter. Fernando beams his most immaculate smile.

“Mark, buongiorno! We wouldn’t keep you of all people waiting. The usual?”

Felipe mutters under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like “ _And you tell me_ ** _I_** _flirt…_ ” as Fernando leans right across the counter to write down Mark’s order. It’s not like he needs to either; Mark visits almost every day, and Fernando _always_ makes his drink…

“Maybe you should ask _Mark_ out,” Felipe suggests grumpily, as Fernando turns to the machine.

“That is just called _good customer service_. Keeps them coming back, no?”

“ _Good customer service_ my arse… You are never that nice to Vitaly.”

Fernando shoots Felipe a glare that would be utterly terrifying if it weren’t for how funny Felipe always finds the other man’s eyebrows. The Brazilian suppresses his giggles, and goes to collect the empties from the scattered tables out front.

*

“Morning Mr Domenicali!” Felipe looks up hopefully from where he’s wiping the counter at the jangle of the antique bell. Stefano leaves his paperwork on the counter and goes to shake the taller man’s hand. “You do realise you’re practically keeping me in a job?”

Stefano sighs. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I am thinking though that perhaps we won’t go quite so _radical_ for next year’s machines…”

The engineer laughs, and it’s music to Felipe’s ears. “I suppose I should get on and see what the problem is then.”

Stefano ushers the engineer towards the bar, and then heads back into the offices with his paperwork, leaving Rob to his work.

Felipe leans against the counter (a hopefully-subtle distance away) to watch with fascination as the engineer takes the front off the broken machine and starts to fiddle around, poking at the innards. He tweaks at it, listening to the strange noises it makes with the application of each spanner and screwdriver, twisting to reach into its inner workings (revealing a sliver of pale skin as his tshirt rides up), and bending under the counter to twiddle with the pipes. The manual rests on the side, full of diagrams that Felipe knows are _far_ beyond him, with added biro scribblings in the engineer’s handwriting. It’s a good thing that the café is almost empty, because Felipe is far too busy watching Rob work to pay attention to any customers.

Far too soon, Rob unfolds himself from under the counter, stretches out the cricks in his back, and announces that everything should work fine now. Felipe tries to hide his disappointment, and probably fails. But instead of packing up his toolkit and leaving, Rob turns to the hovering barista.

“Look, now I’ve fixed it, do you want to show me how you’re using it this time? Because, well, I know they’re temperamental fuckers, but they’re not meant to break this often!” Felipe blushes, even more so when he sees Alonso waggling his eyebrows suggestively at him from the till.

“Sure, ok…” Anything to keep the engineer there a little longer… Felipe glares at Fernando, who shrugs, still with a self-satisfied grin, before beating a retreat to Mark’s table. The two men fall into conversation almost immediately, and Felipe secretly hopes that Stefano will come back out and yell at Fernando for leaving the till unattended.

“Ok, let’s start with just an espresso.” The engineer’s voice jerks him back to what he’s meant to be thinking about, and the blush breaks over his face again. Felipe couldn’t feel more awkward if he tried – this is his _job_ , he shouldn’t need some engineer to tell him how to do it right, but it’s even worse because concentrating when said engineer is _right there_ , and decidedly inside his personal space, is nigh on impossible.

Felipe doesn’t look at Rob, and goes through the familiar routine of bang out, grounds in, slide and click, press button E (the green one in the middle), insert cup, and soon produces the espresso.

“Thanks!” says Rob with a cheeky grin, taking the espresso straight out of Felipe’s hands and downing it in one, fingers brushing against Felipe’s. “Yep, that one’s fine, let’s try a latte…”

They work their way through the basics, and onto the more complex signature drinks, before, “Wait a sec…”

Felipe freezes, his hand above the combination of buttons needed for the distinctive Maranello Special.

“There’s your problem. This dial,” Rob’s hand brushes past Felipe’s, still hovering in mid-air, “is set too high, that solves that then.”

“Oh, sorry,” mumbles Felipe, avoiding the engineer’s eyes.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s fine. They’re a bugger, these things.” Felipe looks up, forcing a smile onto his face.

“Is just stupid mistake. Now perhaps I will break it no more.”

Rob smiles down at him. “Hopefully! Not that I mind coming out here, though…”

There’s a heartbeat of expectant silence.

“I, er, I should let you leave, then. Thank you for fixing it. Again.”

Rob shrugs. “Anytime.” He hesitates, still not yet shutting his toolbox, and then he drops his voice. “Look, before I go, let me show you a little trick. Watch carefully.” He taps the side of his nose and smiles, before reaching out to twiddle some dials, pressing a button that Felipe was sure he’d been told never to press, and then sliding the coffee grounds hopper in. “Y’see, if you’re making any of _these_ , let’s start with a _Türk kahvesi_ … you press _those_ , and set this to that, and…” The machine hisses, the cup fills, and Rob offers it to Felipe. “Try that.”

Felipe takes it, warily, and sips it. His eyes widen, and he looks up at the engineer. “This is _good_ , really good.”

“Yeah, well, I know a few things. Not just a pretty face…” Rob grins. “Keep that one to yourself, eh? Consider it a bonus for a, erm, regular customer…?” Felipe laughs. Their eyes wander up to meet as the silence stretches…

“I, er, perhaps, um,” Rob coughs nervously. “I was thinking, maybe we could, y’know, catch up outside of this place sometime, go for coffee, possibly?” Felipe beams. “No, wait, not coffee, sorry, stupid idea…”

“I think I would like that.”

The Englishman lets a shy smile escape onto his face. “Right, good, that’s great. Erm, how about Thursday?”

“Sure. What were you thinking? I know the people at The Silver Arrows… or maybe Force India Balti? Or we could try that new place, HRTapas…”

Rob makes a face at the last suggestion. “How about I meet you here, and we can figure it out then.”

“Ok, sure, good idea.”

Rob finally closes his toolbox. “See you Thursday, then?”

Felipe just grins in reply.

Fernando stands up from Mark’s table, and sashays past Rob as the engineer leaves the café, a smug smile on the barista’s face.

“Shut up, Fernando.”

Fernando raises his hands in mock surrender. “I said nothing.”


	3. Chapter 3

On the pavement outside the Lotus Parlour, (known locally as Black Ices, because no one can ever remember what its official name is meant to be) there are a handful of French-style café tables. At one of them, a tall man with a blindingly bright grin and a black apron is updating the ever-growing specials board with the latest creation – the Sepang Sundae. At another, a blonde man with tattoos up his arms is lounging back in his chair, his hat peak pulled down over his eyes as he naps in the shade of the distinctive black and gold parasols (which are a lot easier on the eye than the old blue and yellow ones…), looking far more comfortable than should be possible on those little metal chairs.

“Kimi!”

The snoozing man stirs, pushing his hat peak up to reveal oversized sunglasses underneath, as the new arrival takes the other seat at his table.

“I thought you practice at this time of day.” Kimi puts his feet on the table and his hands behind his head. By all rights, the chair should topple over, but it doesn’t.

“Christian threw me out after I smashed my fifth glass in an hour… He said the noise was putting Adrian off his experiments.”

Kimi huffs a laugh, and a rare smile tugs at his lips.

“So now you’ve come to annoy me at work.”

“Work? Don’t tell me you get paid for sleeping.”

“As long as I am there when I’m needed, and the freezers are stocked…” He shrugs. “It is laid back here. Much nicer than my old place. But it’s nice to be back in town.”

Sebastian can’t argue there – practically everyone in Fia was happy to see Kimi return from his travels. And whilst Café Ferrari hadn’t been able to make ice cream take off (not even with cutting edge _“gelato”_ equipment), the newly refitted Lotus Café had been more than keen to do something a bit different when the Iceman had come home.

“So, as your _bestest_ friend, any chance of a free ice cream?” grins Sebastian. Kimi doesn’t say anything. “Go on, even a Magnum?”

Kimi sighs – he swears Sebastian could convince Domenicali to paint the Café Ferrari _pink_ if he really tried. “Maybe this once…” He kicks his legs off the table and swings out of his seat. “But you owe me a drink later.”

Sebastian beams, and follows Kimi into the cool of the parlour. “Don’t worry, Heikki’s just ordered a shipment of the best vodka, especially for you.”

It’s Kimi’s turn to grin, not that he’ll let even Sebastian see that.

*

“How have things been, since I left?” asks Kimi, as the two of them enjoy their Magnums at one of the tables inside the parlour. It’s the first proper chance they’ve had to catch up since Kimi came home, the shifts of a club barman and a _glacier_ not really matching up, and the rest of Kimi’s time almost completely filled with the parlour refit and training up the new boy, Romain.

“Great actually. I suppose you’ve heard all about the bar.”

“How could I not? It’s not just here that you’re famous. Sounds like being an award-winning barman suits you.”

“I love it. Love the show, love everything, it’s fantastic.” Seb grins. “Love the competitions too.”

“You would.”

“You of all people can’t say there’s anything wrong with a competitive streak,” Seb responds, jabbing his almost-finished Magnum in Kimi’s direction. “Oh, and Mark doesn’t seem to hate me quite as much as he used to…”

“You _can_ be a cocky little shit.”

Seb tries to look offended, but fails, ending up grinning again. “Yeah, well…” They fall into a brief silence, until Kimi has finished his ice-cream, Sebastian still polishing off the last of his.

“So have you asked Jenson out yet?”

Sebastian nearly chokes, inhaling a chunk of chocolate from his ice-cream in shock. “ _What?!_ ” he manages to blurt out, once he’s finished coughing.

Kimi almost cracks a smile. Almost. “You heard. Jenson. Are you together yet?”

“ _No_ ,” Seb splutters. “No, not at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s with Nico.”

Kimi pauses in the invisible doodles he was drawing with his Magnum stick on the table top. “Rosberg?” He huffs. “Well you’re in luck at least – proves he likes attention-seeking, younger, blond Germans.”

“I am not attention seeking!” Seb looks flustered, a far cry from his normal cheeky confidence, and Kimi gives him a wry smile that replaces what for most people would be a full-on belly laugh. “Anyway, what’s that got to do with anything?” Seb adds quickly (and unsubtly).

Kimi gives Seb a pointed look. “Everyone knows you like him. Always have done. Even when we were together.” He waves his hand to stop Seb interrupting him. “I know nothing happened, but it was obvious.” Kimi shrugs. “After I left I thought you would actually do something about it.”

“I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Kimi raises his eyebrows in reply.

“Tommi, from the bar. Tall, blond, Finnish…” Seb trails off as he realises who he’s talking to.

“Yeah, I know him. Joined when you did.” Kimi actually laughs. “That is one very long-term rebound…” Sebastian glares, but he’s not entirely serious. “How’s that going?”

“Good,” Seb nods. “Good…”

“So shit then.”

“Kimi! No, no, it’s fine…” Kimi doesn’t need to say anything, and Seb just sighs. “It’s fine, yes, he’s great, and he’s been great for me, really. Especially when things got mental at the club, with all the competitions and stuff. Honestly, I would have gone mad without him.”

“But?”

“But,” Seb shrugs. “I dunno, just…”

“He’s not Jenson.”

“Or you.”

“You’re over me. You’re not over Jenson.”

“Do I need to say anything in this conversation? You seem to have all the answers anyway,” Seb half-sulks, chewing on his Magnum stick.

Kimi shrugs and half-smiles. “It’s nice to be proved right.” Seb makes a rude gesture. “So what are you going to do?”

Seb shrugs again. “I don’t know. See what happens, I guess.”

“Just don’t be a dick.” Seb knows that’s Kimi-speak for _just make sure you’re happy_.

There’s the scraping of metal chair legs against paving slabs, and a group of young Frenchmen take over the tables outside the café. Romain grins and joins them, leaving the specials board leaning by the door, and almost immediately the sound of lively chatter and laughter is floating through the doors and into the parlour itself. It won’t be long until Kimi will have to deal with the influx at the counter, as Romain is bound to insist that his friends try every flavour – he’s enthusiastic almost to a fault about his work…

“I’d better leave you to it. See you around though?” Sebastian stands up, and Kimi gives him one of his trademark almost-dismissive, small semi-circular waves, accompanied by a smile and a nod of his head.


	4. Chapter 4

The beach at Fia is beautiful in the early morning sun, the sand almost glowing and the ocean sparkling as the waves roll into the sweeping bay. The sun is just above the promontory, already climbing into the blue sky, and the air is still cool. Perfect weather for Jenson and Mark’s weekly run together.

The two of them don’t usually talk as they run, but today Mark seems preoccupied, and Jenson isn’t going to pass up the one opportunity he’s likely to get to find out what the problem is.

“Don’t tell me _nothing_ , I know you better than that.” Words are kept sparse as they jog down the beach, trainers leaving heavy footprints in the otherwise pristine sand, their shadows stretching in front of them.

Mark doesn’t say anything for a while, clearly choosing his words carefully. Any careful consideration though clearly goes out the window, as his answer is just, “Fernando.”

“Guessed as much.” Jenson doesn’t add anything to that, waiting instead for Mark to elaborate.

“I thought there was, I dunno, something. But then,” they jump over a piece of driftwood, and keep running, “he came out with something to the other barista when he thought I couldn’t hear.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, he’s just like that with me because I’m a regular.”

“Really?” Jenson is actually surprised, and turns from eyes-ahead to actually look at Mark.

“Yeah, something about _good customer service._ ”

Mark doesn’t usually show his feelings, but Jenson can tell that it’s hit him harder than he’ll admit.

“ _Really_ really?” Because Jenson has seen Fernando take his normal immaculate smile to levels previously unseen by mankind whenever he’s serving Mark, and Jenson isn’t convinced, even if Mark seems to be.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Mark just huffs.

“I can’t see it. Maybe you should just talk to him.”

Mark pants a laugh. “Yeah right mate. He’s the pretty-boy barista, I’m the grumpy Aussie. Don’t know what I was thinking really. I’d make even more of an idiot of myself than I’ve already managed.”

“It’s not like you’ve serenaded him in front of his boss. Though, maybe you should try that…” Mark turns to raise his eyebrows at Jenson, who is trying (but failing) to look like he’s taking the idea seriously. Then he grins at Mark, who gives him a smile in reply that says very clearly _don’t even think it_. After all, they’ve both heard Mark sing… “Seriously though,” Jenson continues, “find an excuse. Catch him out of work somewhere. Worst comes to the worst, you just have to find somewhere else to get coffee…”

Mark laughs. “I’ll think about it. Not the serenading that is.” It’s always worth clarifying with Jenson. “But if I end up getting slapped by an angry Spaniard, I’m blaming you.”

“The trials of playing matchmaker!” Jenson laughs in reply. “Just don’t pass the slap on…”


	5. Chapter 5

Wednesday morning. It’s the late morning kind of time that’s after the coffee-break rush, but before things get crazy for lunch, and the café is quiet. Felipe is alone in the shop, taking the free moment to empty his tip jar (which has been filling faster than Fernando’s for the first time in a long time, thanks to Rob’s tweaked versions of the drinks), whilst Fernando is out back somewhere. Probably playing around with latte art… he’s got to do _something_ to get the tip stakes back to how they were only last week…

The bell jangles as the door opens, and Mark enters.

“Buongiorno Mark!” chirps Felipe. Mark smiles his slightly gruff smile, but before Felipe has a chance to ask him what he’d like, Fernando has appeared from out back, his face practically split in two with his grin to the Australian.

“Mark! The usual?”

Felipe sighs, leaves the till, and goes back to counting his tips and eating the muffin he may or may not have swiped from the cabinet earlier…

“Er, no actually, thanks.”

Fernando blinks, already halfway through writing the order on his pad. “Oh?” He glances over to Felipe, but the Brazilian isn’t paying attention. “Come to try the new _Café Interlagos_?” he asks, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“No actually, though I’ve heard it’s pretty good…” Fernando’s expression twists through relief, then into almost jealousy, and Mark decides that he should stop talking about that now. “I’m not actually here for a drink. I was after your expertise.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow quizzically.

“I was thinking of adding an espresso martini to the cocktail menu at work, and I thought, who better to ask for advice than two-times, back-to-back barista champion himself?”

If there’s one way to win over Fernando Alonso, it’s to stroke his ego, and he beams.

“Anything for our favourite regular.”

“ _Your_ …” comes a mumbled correction from where Felipe is sitting, clearly listening after all. Fernando gives him a damn good ignoring.

“Thanks mate. Just let me know when you can make it over.” Mark plucks the notepad out of Fernando’s hand, “I suppose you’ll need this, then,” and scribbles a string of numbers underneath the half-finished name of his usual drink.

Felipe is genuinely shocked to see Fernando Alonso looking almost _shy_ , as he tears the page off, folds it neatly in two, and tucks it in his breast pocket, tapping it lightly and almost proudly.

When Mark leaves, Felipe sidles over to Fernando, smiling smugly.

“This is no longer just _good customer relations_ , no?”

“You of all people cannot bitch at me for flirting on the job,” Fernando snaps. He’s self conscious in a way that he’s not used to, and doesn’t want Felipe rubbing it in his face.

Felipe stops, shocked, and pouts. “Was not that, you idiot. I was going to say, I will take the extra shift if you want an afternoon off. Now I am not so sure I should offer.”

Fernando looks up, an expression of genuine surprise on his face, followed up rapidly by something like remorse. _This is the “previously unseen emotions of my arrogant co-worker” show, isn’t it?_ muses Felipe.

“Oh. Lo siento…”

Felipe sighs, and relents – he was never one to bear grudges – and Fernando smiles in reply.

“He seems a nice guy, no?” Felipe says.

Fernando smiles more widely. “I would say so, yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

Thursday comes around eventually, and the day goes slower than Felipe has ever known time to pass. He spends the day alternating continuing to wow the customers with Rob’s tweaked versions of the drinks, driving Stefano mad by dropping cups and staring into space, and being teased by Fernando for acting like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Felipe finishes running through the drinks menu with Giancarlo (his cover for the evening), hurries out back to change his shirt and ditch his apron, and is outside the café at six on the dot, leaning on his bike and scanning the street. But Rob isn’t in his familiar (and distinctive) uniform, and manages to sneak up on Felipe, tapping him on the wrong shoulder and chuckling as the shorter man spins an almost complete circle, trying not to drop his bike.

“Waiting for someone?” Rob smiles down at him, leaning on his handlebars.

Felipe beams at the sound of his favourite accent, and turns to look at Rob, who’s dressed up rather smartly in a pink, open-necked shirt…

Rob doesn’t expect Felipe to suddenly start giggling.

“What?” Rob asks, sounding self-conscious.

“I am sorry, but, your sunglasses,” Felipe tries to stop laughing, but fails. “They are not very, how you say, _stylish_?”

Rob scoffs, and bats at Felipe’s hat. “Says the man wearing a baseball cap with a shirt… I think they’re rather nice, thank you very much. Anything else you’d like to mock, hm?”

It’s then that Felipe notices the stripy socks, peeking out from Rob’s trousers where his foot is resting on the pedal, and bursts out laughing again. Rob rolls his eyes, threatens to leave without him, and ends up joining in with Felipe’s infectious laughter.

*

“So where are we going?” Rob asks, as they cycle leisurely together along the wide avenue that runs through the centre of the town, lined with trees and benches and drenched in the warm summer evening sun.

“Silver Arrows,” Felipe answers, turning off and into the shaded backstreets, which echo with drifting voices and laughter from the cafés and bars that are tucked into tiny cobbled alleys or sprawl into sunny plazas.

“Really? That’s, er, quite expensive, isn’t it? And near impossible to get a table, being Michelin starred and all…”

Felipe laughs. “Is ok, I know them there.”

Bikes left outside, Felipe almost bounces into the restaurant, greeting the Maître D with a warm handshake and a bright smile.

“Ross! It’s been a while, no?”

Ross was an unassuming Englishman with a talent for picking the best chefs – it was Ross who had discovered Jenson’s flair for pastry, when he worked in the kitchen of the old Japanese place, and who capitalised on it when Honda became Brawn, and took its first Michelin star.

“Too long Felipe, too long. When Michael said you were coming we made sure we had one of our best tables for you.”

Rob looks around as he trails behind Felipe. The restaurant oozes effortless class, the walls papered in a shimmering silver with delicate mint green patterns, with antique chandeliers hanging from the double height ceiling, past the upper balcony, sparkling in the sunshine that pours through the double height window.

They’ve barely been seated long enough to open the menus before Herr Schumacher, the multi-Michelin-starred head chef himself turns up, and Felipe’s on his feet again to hug the tall German, beaming. The two men are soon chatting away, catching up about things and people Rob has never heard of, and Rob’s feeling slightly awkward. This isn’t Felipe the shy and slightly clumsy person he is around Rob when something’s broken, this is the confident, award-winning barista; the person Rob has seen and heard of but not yet met. And he feels out of his league.

Then Michael asks who his friend is, clearly implying plenty of not-so-hidden meaning behind that word, and the shy person is back, almost blushing as he introduces Rob. The look Michael gives Rob as they shake hands says _if you hurt him, I will hunt you down_. Rob tries to make his expression say _I’d never hurt him_ as loudly as an expression can, because the cold steel in Michael’s eyes is bloody intimidating. It seems to work though, because Michael smiles as they let go.

Then he’s gone, as quickly as he appeared, promising the best wine (if not the whole meal) on the house.

*

The food is staggeringly delicious, the wine far too drinkable, and the company perfect. It takes a few stilted starts at conversation, before Rob takes the piss out of their waiter (a blond German lad with a superior expression and immaculate hair, who is attentive to a fault), and then they find that, actually, talking to each other is the easiest thing they’ve ever done. Soon they’re sharing every silly story they’ve ever heard or told before, until they’re failing to hide their laughter in their sleeves, snorting with badly stifled giggles, and being stared at by the other diners for their clearly inappropriate behaviour.

Felipe tells him about working at Chocolats de Sauber, before he took his apprenticeship at Café Ferrari. Rob tells him about his time at Jordan’s Irish Pub, pulling pints and hauling barrels around years before it became the Force India Balti, and bemoans the lack of a proper pub in town these days. From there, they share memories of watching football matches on the tv in Jordan’s, which merge into stories of wild nights out, of being thrown out of fancy bars for spraying entire champagne bottles over their friends and (inadvertently) over everyone else, and of waking up in fountains in the middle of town, wondering where their trousers were…

They giggle again, and the other patrons shoot them judgemental looks.

“I never would’ve put this down as your type of place,” Rob admits, once they’ve stopped laughing long enough to draw breath.

“You think I cannot do classy?” Felipe shoots back teasingly, raising an eyebrow and pulling at his shirt collar as if to pop it up, before shrugging. “I thought it would be nice. Special, no?” Felipe looks up to find Rob studying him, and he smiles shyly. “Maybe I wanted to impress you.”

Rob smiles, the very same smile that Felipe is convinced he fell for the very first time he saw it (not that he’ll tell Rob that), and swills the wine in his glass. “You don’t have to impress me.”

They look at each other, and look at each other, smiles growing mischievous. Then Rob knocks back the last of his wine, puts the glass down with a _thunk_ , and grins.

“Shall we?” he asks, tilting his head towards the door.

Felipe wrinkles his nose in an answering grin, and as if on an unspoken signal, the two men leap from their seats and make a run for it, past the disapproving diners and out, grabbing their bikes and setting off at a race down the backstreets, laughing like teenagers as they go.

“So where are we going now?” calls Rob.

“Red Bull!” calls Felipe.

Rob grins. “Sounds good to me!”

In a few minutes time, dessert will arrive at an empty table. But that’s ok, because their waiter has a sweet-toothed boyfriend who will be more than happy to polish it off.

*

The club isn’t too busy, and they don’t have to queue at the door or even for long at the bar. Inside, the air tastes sweet from the smoke machine, and is bright with the hypnotic colours of the lights. The midweek music is eclectic, a mix of pop, rock, and Latino hits that suit the cosmopolitan tastes of the town, and by the time they reach the bar both Rob and Felipe have heard something they like enough to sing along to, off key, but drowned out (mostly) by the volume of the music itself.

They may already have had a bottle of wine between them, but Felipe orders a round of shots, and once they’ve done those, Rob orders another. Then, beer bottles in hand, Felipe drags Rob onto the dancefloor, expecting him to be reticent and stereotypically _British_ about the whole thing. But this isn’t Rob the quietly confident engineer from the café, this is Rob the hidden party boy from the stories earlier on, and Felipe has met his match.

Felipe mocks Rob’s dancing, and Rob returns the favour, but as the club fills the gap between them closes until they’re almost on top of each other. Rob rests his hand on the small of Felipe’s back, holding him close, whilst Felipe decides that it’s fine to untuck Rob’s shirt in the middle of the club ( _You look better like that_ , he yells into Rob’s ear with a wicked grin, before sliding his hands onto the bare skin of Rob’s waist), and whilst they’re not really taking anything very seriously, they unanimously decide that they dance much better when they’re that close together.

*

They stumble out of the club, legs aching and still laughing, much later than they’d ever planned on staying out. Felipe’s flat is closer than Rob’s, and as they walk down the street together, pushing their bicycles, Rob jokes about being a gentleman and walking Felipe home. His comment earns him a sideways shove, but Rob just laughs, and Felipe’s only pouting slightly.

*

Felipe stands on his front step, his bicycle now leaning in the corridor behind him.

“I guess I’ll see you soon?” Rob asks hopefully.

“For sure,” Felipe replies. They hover, Rob not wanting to leave, Felipe not wanting to shut the door…

“Oh c’mhere,” Rob says, dropping his bike with a crash and closing the gap between them, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist. And whilst Rob would have been quite happy for just a hug (it is a first date, after all), the bundle of bright Brazilian energy makes the most of the added height from standing on the step, and flings his arms around Rob’s neck and presses their lips together. Their mouths fall open as Felipe’s hand slides into Rob’s hair and they relax into each other - it’s warm, it’s soft, it’s the taste of alcohol and each other; it’s perfect.

“You do not have to go, if you do not want,” Felipe mumbles into the crook of Rob’s neck a few moments later.

“In which case, I think you’d better invite me in…”

Felipe pulls back, takes Rob’s hand in his, and leads him gently inside the house.

*

Felipe is hot, smooth, honey-coloured skin, toned muscles, and dark eyes blown wide to black and fixed on Rob. Rob takes his time to strip him and explore him, wanting to touch every inch of him, taste the sheen of sweat that glistens on his body, keep playing that incredible range of sounds out of him as he writhes in building pleasure and frustration beneath his fingers and lips and tongue.

Rob is soft, pale, and fluffy around the edges, with surprisingly warm blue eyes, and Felipe is desperate to tear his clothes off with no respect for buttons. Felipe sees what can only be described as _reverence_ in those eyes, and he wants to tell Rob that he won’t break, that he’s burning up for _more_ , that Rob can take whatever he wants from him, because Felipe would give him everything, because it feels like he’s been waiting for this since they first laid eyes on each other.

Rob doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything quite as beautiful as the stream of pleas and curses in Portuguese, English, and Italian that pour from the Brazilian’s kiss-swollen lips as Rob pushes slowly into him, and keep spilling out as he starts to thrust into that delicious tight heat, with legs wrapped around his waist and hands around his neck and grasping into his hair as he presses kisses to the younger man’s neck and shoulders.

It isn’t long before they fall over the edge together, sweat-slick and crying out each other’s names through ragged breathing, Felipe tugging at Rob’s hair and leaving scratches down his back as he arches up and tightens around him, Rob trying and failing to hold back his movements as he loses control.

They’re too tired to clean up, or even move, and they fall asleep in a damp and sticky tangle of limbs that already feels more than just comfortable, Felipe curled up close to Rob’s chest as the taller man holds him tucked into his arms.


	7. Chapter 7

Kimi is completely focussed on making minute adjustments to the temperature setting of the ice cream maker when a familiar voice calling his name interrupts him. He looks up to see Heikki, old friend and drinking partner, at the door of the parlour, bearing a wooden crate stencilled with “Caterham Merchant Trading”.

“Delivery for you!” Heikki hefts the crate onto the counter, and Kimi pulls out a suspiciously large knife to pry it open. Inside there are three bottles of premium Finnish vodka, and Kimi cracks a smile.

“Perfect.”

“What’s it for?” asks Heikki, digging his pad out of his pocket. “Sign here.”

Kimi puts down the bottle he was examining, and scribbles illegibly on the pad before handing it back.

“Sorbet. Experimenting.”

“Sounds good. You’ll have to invite people round to taste it… I’m prepared to offer my expert opinion on the matter.”

Heikki is grinning, but Kimi doesn’t look hugely impressed. “If I gave free stuff to everyone who claimed to be my _special friend_ then this place will be out of business by the end of the week.”

“Eh, I had to try, didn’t I?” Heikki leans on the counter. “Either way, you remember we used to hang out and drink this stuff, just the two of us?” Kimi tilts his head, an almost nod. “Well there’s a few of us now, and now you’re back in town, you should come join us.” Kimi considers for a moment, remembering who Heikki’s business partner is, and who the other members of the group are likely to be (he hasn’t yet met Seb’s new boyfriend for starters). But a twitch of lips, a raised eyebrow, and a sideways tilt of the head is a _why not_ from Kimi, and Heikki grins. “Marussia, Wednesday nights. See you there?”

  
“For sure.” After all, he can’t spend _all_ of his time locked in the parlour kitchen, eating his creations…


	8. Chapter 8

Caterham Merchant Trading don’t have a steady base in Fia. But that doesn’t mean that people don’t know where to find them if they want to – there’s a table in the window of Marussia (the quiet Russian restaurant on the very edge of town) that is perpetually occupied, by both men, at least two shot glasses, and a bottle. Because Caterham don’t trade in just anything, they trade in only the finest vodka.

Some nights it’s just the two traders; Vitaly, the tall, almost silent Russian, and Heikki, the slighter and smiley Finn. Other nights it gets more rowdy, when Tommi and Heikki from Red Bull join them, and they work their way through several bottles and argue over the merits of different genres of heavy metal and dance. Sometimes Timo, the waiter in the restaurant, joins them too – after all, business is never that busy at Marussia. In previous years Robert would have dropped in too, but he’s been ill, and instead they drink to his recovery and return. And now Kimi’s home again, well, nights could soon get very rowdy indeed.

But right now there are only three of them.

Whilst Heikki may be the only one talking, rambling on about how patchy business has been lately, it’s the other two men who are really speaking.

The bottle sits on the table between them, where they eye each other up cautiously. They lock gazes, and look, really look, for a good while, seemingly reading straight through each other.

Then Kimi tilts his head to one side, offers the tiniest sliver of an apologetic smile, dropping his eyes to his shot glass, which he twirls slowly on the table. There’s the faintest of shrugs, and then he looks back up again.

Vitaly keeps his expression blank and guarded for another few seconds, still eyeing Kimi. Then one side of his mouth quirks upwards, and he reaches for the bottle, uncorking it with a satisfying _thunk_ and filling Kimi’s glass. Then he fills his own, and puts the bottle back down.

The two men don’t raise their glasses to each other, but they keep looking at each other as they pick up and down their shots with practiced ease, faces settled into relaxed almost-smiles.

And that’s all it takes for Kimi to apologise for how the café treated Vitaly, and for Vitaly to acknowledge that he knows it wasn’t Kimi’s fault. No hard feelings.

And just because Heikki was talking, doesn’t mean he wasn’t listening. He picks up the bottle, fills all of their glasses, and raises his in a toast.

“To vodka,” Heikki offers. “What unites us.”

Even Kimi laughs at that, and the three of them down their shots.

*

Heikki and Tommi turn up not long after, when heavy metal music is blasting out into the street and Heikki and Vitaly are arguing over what they play next, Kimi just leaning back in his seat and watching, amusedly. When Tommi sees Kimi he gives him a look that is entirely unique to people meeting an ex of their new partner - a cold, sizing up of the ‘competition’. Kimi widens his eyes, opens his shoulders, and smiles, each movement almost imperceptible, but the effect says _I have no problem with you_. Tommi’s eyes narrow, unsure, and then he looks away - _I don’t like you, but I’m not going to make it a problem_. Truce. There’s no reason to hate each other. But then, there’s no particular reason to be friends either, not that it bothers Kimi. And it certainly won’t stop all of them staying up together until ungodly o'clock in the morning, and until Caterham Trading are at risk of making a loss for the week…


	9. Chapter 9

Saturday night. The bass beat is pounding through the Red Bull Bar, the lights flashing in streams of colours and shapes. Lasers cut shimmering swathes in the smoky air, and the revellers stretch up to touch the sheets of light above them as the song drops and the crowd cheers. Jaime grins with his tongue stuck out and his headphones pressed against his ear, high on the atmosphere and the adrenaline of running the show. It may be the cocktails and the names behind the bar that pull in the punters, but this club would be nothing without the Toro Rosso club night. Even superstar Sebastian had DJed with them, back in the day.

From the high booth Jaime can survey the whole club. Down amongst the dancers he can see familiar faces, the club night’s new recruits Daniel and Jean-Eric on the floor, taking photos and working the scene, getting themselves known, flirting and laughing and trying to dance amongst the seasoned clubbers, who can dance and jump without ever spilling their drinks. The waitresses, Kylie, Abbey, Liz, and Kate (or perhaps her twin…) thread between the crowds, trays held high above their heads, piled with glasses and bottles, both full and empty. Over in the VIP area the Big Names sip vintage champagne, Christian entertaining Martin and Stefano as they sit together in the high-back booths which shield them slightly from the music. At the bar, the four barmen have been working almost flat out since doors opened – Mark is pulling pints, Heikki and Tommi are tossing alcopops and beer bottles in a chain from the fridge, and Sebastian is entertaining a crowd with his most complex flicks and tricks, pouring drinks _upwards_ , balancing towers of glasses, and slicing things in mid-air.

It seems that everyone’s in town this weekend too – at the edge of the dancefloor Bruno is beaming from ear to ear at whatever Karun is telling him, and leaning against a high table together are Adrian and Lewis, their entire worlds narrowed just to each other and the words they’re sharing. It seems that DC has brought some friends in from out of town; a tall and fair-haired man in a smart shirt who Jaime doesn’t know, and, oh, _of course_ , that’s Eddie Jordan hitting on the waitresses… He hasn’t got a chance against Jerome though, whose bright eyes get him attention from _whomever_ he cares to talk to.

This is Jaime’s kingdom, and he grins in delight. At the touch of a button, the air is suddenly full of glitter, and the cheers from below get even louder. Jaime sees Jenson brushing the sparkling pieces out of Nico’s hair (who doesn’t look impressed), and he laughs again. He controls everything here – a flick of a switch can change the lights and drive people wild, a carefully chosen song can push a couple who were skirting around each other into each other’s arms, he can hush the crowds, hold them hanging, build them up, make them explode with joy, release them to the bar, or drag them back to the floor; whatever he chooses. Jaime scoops up a handful of glitter, and blows it out of his hand like a kiss, winking to a nameless dancer who happens to catch his eye. Yes, this is Jaime’s kingdom, and Jaime rules here.

*

A rare break in the orders gives Sebastian a moment to lean on the bar and just breathe, watching the clubbers dancing and talking (correction; _shouting_ over the music). It’s another busy night ( _When isn’t it?_ Sebastian thinks), and the dancefloor was full, practically everyone he knew, and plenty he didn’t. One of the problems though with Red Bull being so popular was that _everyone_ came. And _everyone_ included a certain Englishman and his pretty blond boyfriend. They were practically regulars, showing up every week almost without fail, ordering a couple of rounds of cocktails (Sebastian always tried his damndest to show off when he was making for Jenson) and then moving to the floor, where they’d dance like no one was watching.

Or rather, like _everyone_ was watching, because it was obvious that Nico loved the attention, and that Jenson was more than happy to oblige.

“You ok Seb?” The voice behind him stops him from taking that train of thought to its logical conclusion, and let’s be honest, Seb didn’t actually want to think about what Jens and Nico got up once they got home after a night out, after the _show_ they put on to the other clubbers…

“Yeah, yeah, fine thanks Tommi.”

“Stop moping then.” Tommi slaps Seb gently on his behind, and smiles fondly.

Seb smiles back, but his heart’s not in it. Tommi is lovely, he’s great, he really is, but Kimi’s right – he’s not Jenson. It was ridiculous, it really was – he’d had a thing for the Brit ever since he’d been just a kid, new to the town and DJing on the Toro Rosso club night, when Jenson was working at that Japanese restaurant…

“Seb?” Tommi frowns.

“I’m ok, I am,” Seb squeezes Tommi’s hand. “Just, tired. Long night.”

Tommi smiles, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Don’t worry. Look, why don’t you take a break? I’ll cover.”

Seb shakes his head. “It’s ok, I’ll just snag a Red Bull. It’s not like we’re short of the stuff.”

Tommi may be the level headed one, practical occasionally to the point of boring, but he’s also the one who knows just how to distract Seb, and more importantly, he knows _when_ to.

Which is why he slips his hand into Seb’s back pocket, squeezes his arse, and tilts his head towards the back office door.

“I’m sure there are other ways to ‘ _wake you up_ ’ whilst it’s quiet out here…”

Seb can’t help but smile. Tommi may not be Jenson, but that doesn’t mean that Seb doesn’t fancy the pants off him, or would turn him down… He looks around the bar. Mark is making cocktails now, Heikki is flirting with the waitresses, and Christian is up in the VIP area and paying no attention to the bar…

“Let’s go.” He grabs Tommi’s hand and drags him through the door into the offices.

*

Tommi locks the storeroom door from the inside as Seb crowds him up against the wall, hands fisting in his shirt and kissing him, hard, lips slamming together, mouths falling open, and tongues battling against each other. Tommi pushes back, and spins Seb around, until it’s the younger man with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around Tommi’s neck whilst the Finn untucks the German’s shirt and runs his hands up the bare skin of his waist, soon fumbling with the stiff buttons of Seb’s jeans. Seb groans under the touch of the older man, who is palming at Seb’s hardening cock through the denim, hands then slipping inside his waistband and into his boxers and pulling his jeans aside.

“We can’t be long,” Seb pants. “Last time… they all noticed we’d gone.”

“I’m not planning on being long,” Tommi replies in Seb’s ear, pulling a long stroke up Seb’s cock and making him whimper shamelessly.

Then Seb’s pulling Tommi’s trousers open too, wrapping his hand around the thick shaft and listening to the Finn’s breath catch in his throat. Seb chuckles breathily.

“Good, because neither am I.”

Their fingers interlink and wrap around both their cocks, stroking hard and fast as they kiss messily, tongues and teeth and panting breaths. It’s only a quick and dirty fumble in a storeroom, but that doesn’t mean that it’s long before they’re both close, far too well practiced at this to do anything other than exactly what will bring them both off fastest.

Seb comes first, his cries hushed by Tommi’s lips on his, who follows shortly after with an almost whispered gasp, and they slump back against the wall together.

When they get their breath back Tommi cleans them both up with some of the club-branded napkins, and tucks Sebastian back into his boxers, pressing a gentle kiss against the cotton before zipping Seb’s jeans back up.

“Better now?” he asks.

Seb just grins. “ _God_ yes.”

“Good, now go. They’ll miss you long before they notice me.”

Seb mock glares. “You just don’t want to have to face Christian first if he’s figured out where we went.”

Tommi chuckles. “You know I’d take the fall for you. But seriously, go!” A pat on Sebastian’s bum and Tommi propels his boyfriend out the door, shutting it quickly again so he can tidy himself up. Things may get pretty raunchy in the club at times, but he knows he can’t disguise the _just fucked_ look in the same way that Seb can…

*

When Seb reappears, Mark raises an eyebrow, but Seb pretends not to notice.


	10. Chapter 10

Williams used to be a world famous restaurant, where great chefs made names for themselves. Times have changed though, and Frank’s place hasn’t kept up. Once upon a time, back in the golden days, Bruno’s uncle worked there. But that was then, and it’s not the same place anymore. _Dilapidated_ is the wrong word, and _dated_ isn’t quite right either, but it’s not the swishest place in town by any stretch, and it’s usually pretty quiet. Quiet to the point of _dead_ a lot of the time.

It’s lunchtime, and Bruno is sitting in the window, watching people pass by in the street outside. Pastor is in the kitchen, and it’s just the two of them in.

His phone buzzes into life.

_[[ Pretty good thanks, you? Didn’t mean to ignore your last text, just been really busy. How’s the new job going? ]]_

Bruno’s sure he’s told Karun all there is to tell, but just to get a reply these days is difficult, so he’ll tell him again, just for something to say.

_[[ You should take a day off, you are always busy now! It’s ok, just as quiet as last time you asked, but we hope we’ll get busier soon. You up for Skype this week? Sure you’ve got lots to tell me! :) ]]_

_And I’ve got barely anything to tell you,_ Bruno thinks.

He doesn’t know why he bothers to leave his phone on the table – knowing the past few weeks he’ll be lucky to get a reply by the end of the day. If he’d thought last year had been tough, well, he’d had no idea then what _tough_ really meant.

The door clicks open, and Bruno leaps to his feet, hoping that any customers haven’t been put off by the sight of him pining in the front window.

Oh, never mind, it’s just Vitaly again.

Bruno’s smile drops out of a dazzling, _Welcome, customer,_ and into, _Oh, hi_. Vitaly tries not to look disappointed. Which isn’t difficult for him, hiding behind his stoic Russian façade.

“Hey. What can I get you?”

Vitaly asks for a coffee, because he always does, even though there are much better places in town to go for coffee, and sits at one of the tables tucked into a corner. Bruno fetches his drink, and joins him. It’s almost a routine now. Bruno wasn’t sure why he started turning up (they’d only worked together for a little while, and whilst neither of them had left under the best of circumstances, it hadn’t really been a bonding experience), but he can’t deny that it’s nice to have company when things are _really_ slow. Company who doesn’t talk that much, granted, but company all the same.

“Quiet today, yes?”

Bruno looks up from his phone (still no reply). “Yeah, as always.”

“They still pay you though?”

“Yeah…” _Not the point though,_ Bruno adds to himself.

They drift back into silence, Bruno flicking through old text messages, Vitaly drinking his coffee and looking out the window.

When Bruno’s phone vibrates in his hands he almost drops it, and is promptly grinning ear to ear at the little envelope on his screen.

_[[ I’ll do my best! How about Monday? I’ll book the time in my diary ;) ]]_

Monday, that’s only a few days. He can wait that long.

_[[ Sure! Looking forward to it already :D Try not to miss me too much! ;) ]]_

When he looks up, he sees Vitaly watching him, and wonders why. Then he realises that he’s still got the text-induced goofy grin plastered across his face, and hastily tries to straighten it out.

“Good news?” Vitaly asks.

Bruno can’t help but grin again when he thinks about it. “Yeah, very good.”

“Karun?”

Bruno’s not surprised that Vitaly guesses correctly – Karun was still around when they were working together, and he’s pretty sure he had the same ridiculous grin whenever Karun turned up in the café back then.

“Skype date,” Bruno admits, and Vitaly smiles in reply. It occurs to Bruno that for someone who seems to do his best to hide everything he’s feeling, Vitaly does have a remarkably genuine and wide smile.

“You miss him a lot, yes?”

“Yeah, it’s not easy. India is a long way away.”

“I understand.”

Neither of them seem to have anything to say in reply to that, and once again the restaurant falls silent. Bruno stares out the window, and Vitaly’s attention is taken up entirely by lining up his coffee cup and spoon on the saucer.

“Why do you come here?” Bruno asks, out of the blue. Vitaly looks up, but seems remarkably unmoved by the question.

“I would not see you otherwise. It was nice to work with you last year.” That’s a fair enough answer, but… “Is that problem?”

Bruno shakes his head. “No, just, it’s boring here. If you wanted to see me, you could have just asked.”

“Yes, and you _look_ bored here, so this is where I come.” Then Vitaly frowns again. “But if you want, I will not come here anymore. Perhaps somewhere else?”

Bruno shrugs – there’s no reason not to at least consider that, and so they start to work through the list of places in town where they could go instead, finding themselves discussing each place in remarkable detail, and then writing them all off one by one, for being a bit rubbish (HRTapas), for not liking particular members of staff (Café Ferrari, Black Ices), for being out of their price range (Silver Arrows), for not actually serving coffee (Force India Balti)… until they eventually decide that maybe it’s simpler just to stay where they are…

Vitaly’s finished his coffee, and when Bruno suggests a second Vitaly can’t see why not.

“On the house,” Bruno smiles, and when he returns, he’s got one for himself as well – there’s no one else around, after all.

*

There’s still no one around until long past closing time, but today neither of them quite know where the time went.

And it’s not until after Vitaly leaves that Bruno notices that there’s an unread text on his phone.


	11. Chapter 11

Lewis is in a _bad_ mood. And in his mind at least, he has every reason to be. The MTCanteen was _his_ place to shine, where he’d been training for years, a hip and slick sandwich bar where the great and the good, not just from Fia, but music stars and actors from miles around were all desperate to be seen. Smash hits had been written at their tables, contracts signed, stellar careers started, and star-studded friendships forged. Then Red Bull had opened, with their terrible twosome of talented barmen who had completely stolen the show, and suddenly no one wanted to visit a sandwich bar anymore.

And _then_ , then _Jenson_ had arrived, with his sweet tooth and ridiculous talent for delicate icing, and suddenly they were a _cake shop_ … Sorry, no, a “ _patisserie_ ”. Fucking pansy cake shop, in Lewis’ opinion. Yes, people were coming back, but they certainly weren’t coming back for _him_. And to make it worse, he couldn’t even hate the man. Christ’s sake, not even dating his best mate could make Lewis dislike him. He’d tried, but he just couldn’t; Jenson was just so bloody charming and genuine and friendly, and ah _frick_.

As he clatters the plates into the dishwasher, he resolves to drop into Café Ferrari. Whilst he’s never known whether he and Fernando were actually friends, it’s worth a try. His one-time colleague might have some words of advice for him; after all, Fernando hadn’t been shy in trying pretty much every shop in town for his perfect job. Perhaps they even have space for one more at the Café itself – he’d heard Felipe had been in trouble a few times over the past few months…

“I’m off out!” he calls to Jenson, who he finds shamelessly licking cake mixture off a wooden spoon in the kitchen. Lewis stops, and makes a face. “Seriously man, that’s _gross_.”

Jenson just grins. “No Lewis, it’s _delicious_.”

Lewis doesn’t stay to watch Jenson inevitably put the spoon straight back in the bowl and keep stirring.

*

With his cap pulled down low over his face, his huge sunglasses on, and a distinct lack of concentration on what’s going on around him thanks to the thoughts spinning in his head, it’s no wonder that Lewis walks straight into someone as he turns onto the table-filled terrace outside Café Ferrari.

The crash is _huge_. An entire tray of cups and plates smash onto the paving, coffee goes down the front of both men, and there’s a tirade of multilingual swearwords from both sides.

“ _Fuck_ man! Watch where the _frick_ you’re going!” Lewis rages, wiping ineffectually at the streaks of coffee on his white top.

“Maybe you should take your own advice, no? Some of us have jobs to do!” Felipe fumes in reply.

“Well if you’re the one working here you’re the one who should be paying bloody attention!”

“Just because you _don’t_ work here does not mean you get to be an idiot. Now I will have to do all this again!” Felipe waves the now-empty tray in frustration at the mess on the ground.

“Maybe that’ll keep you out from under people’s feet.”

“You are the one getting in the way of people trying to work!”

“Yeah, and how long will you be working here if you keep making a mess like this?”

“Longer than you will be allowed to stay here if you keep insulting the staff!”

“It isn’t my fault you’re bloody useless, man.”

“ _I’m_ useless? _Deus meu,_ I do not know how anyone has the strength to ever work with you.”

“At least I’m the one they want to keep, rather than being continually outclassed by my colleagues.”

“You would know how _that_ feels – I hear MT _Cakes_ does not even use your so-called skills anymore.”

“Yeah, well at least I can keep my job without sleeping with the engineers for their help.”

Felipe looks furious, and is suddenly right up in Lewis’ face. “Do _not_ bring Rob into this,” he growls. “And you do not get to work here without being talented. _You_ would struggle to even get a job washing _dishes_ here.”

“Oh? His little puppy’s getting protective, how sweet. And at least I wouldn’t _break_ all the frickin’ dishes, unlike some people.”

Felipe’s fuse is only so long.

The two men are shoving at each other, yelling and cursing venomously with a crowd gathering by the time anyone tries to break up the impending fight. Fernando drags Felipe away, still swearing copiously, before the shoves can escalate into punches, and Nico (who had just been hoping for a quiet coffee in the sunshine) grabs hold of Lewis.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Felipe?!” Fernando almost shakes the Brazilian.

“He crashed right into me! Was not looking where he was going, and he was being an idiot, and now I have to redo all that and clear up that mess and…”

“ _Felipe!_ You cannot just go around getting into fights with customers!”

“I was not fighting! He started it! Was not my fault, and he would not even apologise!”

“You had better hope that Stefano isn’t in, because if he heard all that you will be in plenty of trouble.”

“You are correct there, he _is_ in trouble.”

The two baristas turn to see Stefano at the door to the back offices, looking murderous.

“My office. _Now._ ”

*

Fernando can hear Stefano yelling at Felipe even from out on the pavement, phrases such as _a disgrace to the establishment, inappropriate behaviour,_ and _last chance_ occasionally audible. He can’t hear Felipe reply, but then again, he doesn’t expect his co-worker to be yelling back at their manager, no matter how hot-headed he may be.

Lewis had left, clearly having decided that causing a scene outside the café was going to get him into precisely no-one’s good books, and Nico had gone with him, leaving Fernando busy apologising and serving brand new drinks (on the house) to the customers whose previous orders were now just a puddle and a pile of broken crockery. Hopefully Felipe would be able to clear the mess up when he got out, because Fernando had his hands full now.

It’s nearly ten minutes later when the shouting stops, and Felipe reappears from the upstairs offices, shaking with rage and on the verge of tears, vanishing straight into the back rooms.

There’s a crash of a door being flung open, and Stefano appears at the top of the stairs.

“And Felipe?” Stefano’s still shouting, but it’s a more measured, threatening tone now. “Tomorrow you will show Fernando how to do your drinks. I am _not_ having my staff keeping secrets from one another! The good of the café comes first!” Their manager vanishes again with a wall-shaking slam of the heavy office door.

“Felipe?” calls Fernando, as his co-worker walks straight past him. They may not be the closest of friends, but that doesn’t mean he likes seeing Felipe upset.

“I am going home,” he replies, trying to keep his voice level. “Maybe if I stay out of the way long enough I will be lucky and still have a job in the morning.” Felipe throws his apron in a heap, and storms out of the café’s back door, not wanting to have to pass the staring customers out front.

Fernando sighs and rubs his forehead. It’s not exactly quiet out there today, and with Felipe gone, he’s going to be rushed off his feet. _Dios mio…_


	12. Chapter 12

Felipe hadn’t gone to his own house, instead going straight to Rob’s flat and hammering on the door until the other man had answered, clearly more than just surprised to see Felipe turning up out of the blue like this in the middle of the day. Rob had offered tea, and had the offer completely ignored, as Felipe pushed past him into the house and started immediately ranting and yelling and almost crying, talking absurdly fast and mostly in Portuguese, leaving a bewildered Rob to close the door behind him, follow him into the flat, and attempt to listen and understand whilst taking a seat on the sofa and watching Felipe pace until he’d finally run out of steam and flumped down on the sofa next to Rob.

“So what happened?” Rob asks, rubbing the back of the small Brazilian currently curled up next to him on the sofa. “In a language I understand this time please…”

Felipe huffs a small laugh against Rob’s chest in reply, and then starts to explain all over again.

When he’s finished telling Rob everything, including every single one of his faults that Stefano had decided to list, Rob pulls his boyfriend a little closer to him. “Oh, baby, it’s ok…”

“And _then_ , and _then_ he told me I have to tell Fernando your tricks! Now I will have nothing; they will have no reason to keep me. He said I am on my last chance now.”

Rob presses a kiss to the top of Felipe’s head. “It probably was a bit unfair of me to just tell you about them,” Rob admits, “but I guess I’m biased… Maybe I should have made you take me out to dinner on the extra tip money while it lasted?” he teases.

Felipe pokes him in the ribs in reply. “Never stop being biased,” he mumbles though. “No one else there cares, I need _someone_ on my side.”

Rob’s hand keeps moving in calming circles on Felipe’s back. “Of course they care, Felipe.” Felipe huffs again, but this time it isn’t a laugh. “But I’m there for you, you know I am, ok? Always.”

Felipe relaxes slightly into Rob’s arms. “Thank you.”

“S’okay,” Rob smiles. “Don’t let this get you down. Go back in tomorrow, show Fernando what I showed you, and keep doing what you do best.”

“Making an idiot of myself and breaking things?” Felipe mumbles petulantly.

Rob ruffles Felipe’s hair. “Don’t be difficult,” he teases, shuffling on the sofa until he’s nose to nose with his boyfriend. “No, I meant plotting all the things you want to get up to after work with me…”

When Rob’s got that look in his eyes, even when Felipe’s this miserable he can’t help the way his stomach flips, and before Rob can say another word, he’s got an excitable Brazilian in his lap who is more than happy to be _distracted_ …


	13. Chapter 13

Thursday night, and for the first time in a long time, Williams is heaving. A huge group of Spanish holidaymakers had decided to have their last dinner of the trip all together, and, for reasons unknown to anyone working at the restaurant, had picked Williams as their destination. Bruno was rushed off his feet taking orders and recommending and serving the wine, even having to turn people away at the door due to a simple lack of space, and despite Valtteri helping out as well, Pastor was only just keeping up with the orders back in the kitchen. To make things even crazier, Fernando had dropped in briefly to say hello to some people in the group who happened to be old friends of his from back home, and things had got really rather raucous, red wine flowing and the restaurant almost deafening with chatter and laughter.

“What in heaven is going on out there?” Pastor asks Bruno incredulously, when the waiter rushes back into the kitchen to collect the next round of dishes from the pass, the sounds of the hubbub outside following him in through the door.

“Spain!” Bruno laughs breathlessly, lining as many plates as he can up his arms as fast as possible, and immediately pushing his way through the swing door and back out into the restaurant.

*

Fernando doesn’t stick around for the whole meal – he’s exhausted after a long week of trying to keep the peace at Café Ferrari – and Bruno has only just finished clearing the starters for the group when the barista calls for his own bill.

“Is it you we have to blame for this influx?” Bruno laughs, as he tears Fernando’s bill off the pad and hands it to him.

“I do not recommend restaurants – I know coffee, and wine, not food,” he replies.

“So how did you find the wine then?” Bruno grins back.

“Much better than expected,” Fernando answers, with a trademark wry smile. “In fact, this place is better than expected, for sure. I have not been here for a long time, and I am pleasantly surprised.”

Bruno beams – he may be knackered already, but a good word from Fernando, well, that’s very good indeed…

“I should let you know too, my friends are also impressed. And Xevi,” Fernando nods in the direction of someone further down the long table, “is a critic. Keep an eye on the press, he has good things to say about here tonight.” Bruno’s eyes go wide. “But you did not hear that from me, ok? He does not like people in restaurants knowing, for obvious reasons.”

Bruno taps the side of his nose, still grinning, hands Fernando his change, and bids him a delighted goodnight.

“Why are you smiling so much? You said you were exhausted already,” Pastor asks, when Bruno almost skips back into the kitchen with a pile of empty plates.

“No pressure tonight, my friend, but we have a critic visiting…”

Pastor bares a gritty smile. “Time to show them what we can do then!”

“Bring it on!” Bruno laughs, hurrying out with the next course.

*

The rest of the group stay on until long past the official closing time, by which point Bruno’s losing his voice and his ears are ringing from trying to take orders over the noise, and it’s the early hours of the morning before they have the kitchen sorted and the tables cleared. The staff may all be shattered, but they’ve made more in tips in one night than their entire income for weeks, so the three of them crack open a bottle of champagne in the now-empty restaurant, toast to an evening well-served, and unanimously decide they’ve deserved the right to turn up late the next day…


	14. Chapter 14

On his way to work in the morning Bruno realises that something isn’t right well before he’s anywhere near the restaurant – there’s an acrid smell in the unusually thick air, and the streets seem strangely hazy… When he turns the corner he finds the restaurant decidedly _not_ how they had left it the night before. In the street outside there’s a crowd, both curious onlookers, and a group of people being marshalled by Heikki from Caterham, coordinating a chain of fire extinguishers and buckets of water from all the other businesses on the street, and once he’s pushed through the crowd for a better view Bruno can see the building itself is streaked with black up one side, and missing several windows and a good third of the roof.

“What happened?!” he asks Pastor, who he finds standing near the front of the crowd.

“They do not know. But they say that it might have been the gas, because there was an explosion.”

“ _Jesus!_ ” Bruno hisses.

“We are lucky that we were not in on time today…”

Bruno just nods dumbly.

“Bruno!” The Brazilian turns to see Vitaly sprinting over, before finding himself bundled into a bearhug by the taller Russian. “You are ok! I thought you were inside, no one knew where you were, and…”

Bruno didn’t know Vitaly could talk so fast… “I’m ok!” he gasps, feeling his ribs creak uncomfortably, and Vitaly lets go suddenly, mumbling an apology.

“I was worried, it is not like you to be late…”

“I had a late night.” Vitaly’s expression is unreadable, and Bruno feels the sudden need to explain further. “At the restaurant. It was busy, really busy, I wasn’t even home until nearly morning.”

Vitaly raises his eyebrows slightly, and glances at Pastor, seemingly finding that whatever reaction the Venezuelan did or didn’t give corroborates Bruno’s story, and the eyebrows come down again.

“You are ok then?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, honestly.”

For a moment none of them say anything, just watching as the last of the smoke dies down, and the chain of extinguishers turns into a party of the most hardy, picking through the wreckage to assess the damage.

“So what now?” Bruno eventually asks.

“We go home, I suppose. Frank knows what happened, so…” Pastor shrugs.

“I suppose…” But Bruno still has a funny queasy feeling about what would have happened to them had they been inside, and his head is reeling – he doesn’t really feel like sitting at home staring at the walls…

“You are sure you are ok?” Vitaly asks, breaking into Bruno’s train of thought. Pastor has left already, and Bruno hadn’t even noticed, he’d been that far away.

Bruno’s starting to think that Vitaly isn’t in fact very good at hiding what he’s feeling, because there’s no small amount of concern in those green eyes. “No, I am not sure I am…” he admits. The crowd is starting to dissipate now, Heikki still leading the team inside the building and clearing the debris, and Bruno feels more than a bit lost and helpless. “Do you have to be anywhere?” he asks. Vitaly shakes his head. “Can we go somewhere? I don’t really want to stick around right now…”

Vitaly nods. “Wherever you want, I will pay.”

Bruno smiles gratefully, though it’s the weakest smile Vitaly’s ever seen on him, and they leave what’s left of the restaurant behind them.


	15. Chapter 15

The entire town seems to pull together to help Williams out, even over the weekend, and when Bruno isn’t busy organising everyone’s efforts, he’s running around trying to thank every single person who’s turned up to offer their time on clearing and rebuilding, or donations of equipment for the gutted kitchen. Vitaly and Heikki in particular, along with Paul and Nico from the Force India Balti just down the road, spend an inordinate amount of time on site, for which Bruno doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to thank them enough.

Progress is remarkably fast on goodwill alone, but on Monday the professionals turn up, and there’s nothing for Bruno to do anymore. With nowhere else really to go he finds himself hanging out with Vitaly, spending the late morning and lunch in the window of the otherwise-empty Marussia, both of them wondering why it even bothers opening in the daytime. When the lunch hour finishes, they end up back at Bruno’s flat, sprawled on the sofa and floor in the tiny living room, cracking open a couple of beers and playing Call of Duty, because apparently Bruno loves that game. And whilst Vitaly gets his arse kicked, repeatedly, swearing like a (very Russian) sailor and threatening to give up every time he dies, the way Bruno laughs at his outbursts makes him keep playing.

When afternoon starts to merge seamlessly into evening though, Vitaly glances at his watch, and swears for reasons unrelated to repeated on-screen failure.

“What’s up?” Bruno asks, pausing the game.

“Football practice. All my kit is at my place. I have to go now, I am sorry.” Vitaly stands, his legs unsteady from sitting oddly, and hands his controller back.

“You play football?” Somehow, in all their time talking that had never come up, even though it was common knowledge that Bruno was an avid fan.

Vitaly nods. “You did not know we had club?” he asks. “I thought you love football? And Felipe, you are friends, he plays with us.”

“I knew we had one, I just didn’t know it met today. I don’t play, so…”

“You do not think ever to join us?” Vitaly asks, whilst Bruno is turning off the console and gathering the empty bottles, and they start to make their way to the front door, taking the slow, meandering path of people who don’t actually want the afternoon to be over.

Bruno shrugs. “Just because I enjoy watching it doesn’t mean I am any good on the pitch…”

“You will not know unless you try.”

“I have tried, and believe me, football is not my talent!”

“Maybe you should come watch us. The season starts next week. You never know, it may change your mind.”

“I doubt it!”

“Oh well.” Vitaly shrugs with a smile. “What will you do tonight instead?” They’re by the front door now, Vitaly loitering slightly on the threshold, Bruno leaning on the doorframe.

“I’m Skyping Karun, remember?” he admits, and Vitaly’s sure he looks a little more shy about that than he did the other day.

“Of course, I forgot. Good evening, then.” Vitaly waves awkwardly, and turns to leave.

“Vitaly…” Vitaly turns back, and Bruno shrugs slightly, as if to admit defeat. “Maybe I will come watch a match sometime.” Bruno thinks that there’s something decidedly less stoic than normal in the smile he’s answered with.

*

_(( Karun Chandok – Calling… ))_

The screen flickers into a mosaic of colour, and settles into a recognisable (if jerky and pixelated) familiar face.

“Hey you! How’s it going?” The voice is slightly distorted, but Bruno grins to hear it.

“Hi stranger,“ he replies. "You know I always say I have nothing to tell you these days?” Karun nods. “Well settle in, because this has certainly been an _interesting_ week…”

*

When Bruno signs off, hours later, firstly, he realises that for the first time in a long while he had _far_ more to say than Karun, and secondly, he wonders how much time he spent talking about Vitaly, and if Karun noticed…


	16. Chapter 16

_[[ Took your advice. Invited Fernando to the bar to help me design new drinks. Wish me luck… ]]_

Jenson laughs when the text vibrates in his pocket, and fires off a reply as fast as he can, before Martin has chance to yell at him for not paying attention to the customers.

_[[ Oh aye? Good luck and have fun then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t ;) ]]_

_[[ Mate, that doesn’t leave much… ]]_

Jenson laughs so hard that Lewis throws a cloth at his head.

*

The club is pristine, the bar polished to a shine, and the fluorescent strips accompanied by one or two of the coloured lights, carefully chosen to make the place a little more easy on the eye. Mark has chosen his day carefully too – Christian is out of town, the storerooms are sorted for the week so there’s no need for either Heikki or Tommi to be coming in today, and Seb was easily bribed to take the day off.

When Fernando eventually arrives (late of course) and just letting himself in as instructed, Mark is behind the bar, casually wiping at its surface. Fernando will never know how thoroughly that section has been polished over the past half hour…

Mark finds himself grateful for the enforced separation of the bar between them – it neatly solves the problem of figuring out if they’re on close enough terms to hug hello, or if they should shake hands, or… It’s not as if they’ve ever been shy or quiet around each other, but this isn’t the established company of the barista and regular at the café, this is the unfamiliar territory of just the two of them, out of hours.

Fernando slips onto the stool directly opposite Mark.

“Glad you could make it,” Mark says, by way of a greeting.

“Were you afraid I was not coming?” Fernando challenges in reply.

“Afraid? No. Though I should have expected you to be fashionably late.”

Fernando laughs at the audible air-quotes, and Mark takes a moment to work out why it sounds different, before he recognises that it’s missing its over-bright, professional edge from their time at the café. In fact, everything about the man sitting opposite him is a little more relaxed, a little more genuine, but otherwise exactly the same . Mark realises he doesn’t need to worry anymore about the overheard quip to Felipe – this is Fernando as he really is, and he’s still just as happy to be in Mark’s company as always. Mark finds himself smiling already.

Fernando starts to unpack from his shoulder bag a whole host of coffee making machinery – cafetières, grinders, hand presses – all of which he’d promised to bring and demonstrate how to use when he’d rung earlier in the week. Mark leans on the bar, watching him fiddle with the bits and pieces as he attempts to enlighten the barman on what each thing does, and how they all work.

After a few minutes of patient explanation though, Mark decides to let Fernando waive that promise, telling him that he’ll quite happily leave the coffee bit to him for now, and he’ll concentrate on the alcohol…

They stay on opposite sides of the bar as they dive into the cocktail making, experimenting with different spirits, different mixtures of cream, ice, and milk, different strengths of different coffees, with Fernando grinding _(“That thing makes a racket!” Mark laughs)_ and brewing whilst Mark shakes _(“Yours is just as loud,” Fernando retorts)_ , stirs, and mixes, both of them sharing and tasting each version, discussing the finer nuances of each combination of flavours. The world becomes coffee-flavoured and hazy at the edges, until they’ve lost track of time entirely, and there’s an entire row of different (and mostly empty) glasses on the bar. Somewhere along the line, the cocktails become almost forgotten, and neither of them can figure out the reason why they started making the most awfully cheesy comparisons of each other to coffee and alcohol, and they’re laughing _far_ too hard for two grown men in the middle of the day…

“Shit, which one of these was the one we liked?” Mark says, once they’ve stopped laughing long enough to remember what they were doing to start with.

Fernando pushes lazily at one or two of the glasses. “I thought we liked more than one?”

Mark snorts a laugh. “Yeah, I know we did, we liked, oh, all of those?” Mark pushes at least half the glasses back toward Fernando, his fingers lingering where they rest on the stem of the last glass, noticeably close to Fernando’s. “But there was _one_ , that was better…”

“Maybe we should make them all again?”

Mark groans. “Hell _no_. I’ll be on the floor… And I’d never live it down if Seb or Christian found me passed out in my own bar.”

“Don’t worry, I would take you home and put you to bed.”

When Mark looks up there’s a definite _look_ on Fernando’s face.

“You would, eh?” _Sod it_ , they’ve both been drinking, he might as well make the most of the in that’s just been left wide open there… “That expression though,” Mark gestures to the glint in Fernando’s eyes, “doesn’t say just _put_ to me though.”

“ _Taking_ you to bed would be not so much fun if you were passed out, no?”

_God,_ the man has no right to be so suave with that much vodka in him… Mark just snorts another probably unattractive laugh. “No, no I suppose you’re right there, mate. That’s another decent reason not to make them all over again right now.”

“Oh, you are expecting something then?”

“And what would I be expecting, hm?”

“You were the one talking about being taken to bed.”

“They were your words, ‘Nando, not mine.”

Fernando looks down and twirls the closest glass. “I do not, how do you say it, _put out_ on the first date.”

“Who said this was a date?”

Fernando smiles smugly. “That is true; you should at least buy me a drink if it was.”

“I take it putting money in the till here doesn’t count then.”

Fernando shakes his head, attempting to look superior, or condescending, but failing utterly and just laughing. “You are terrible, and you are no romantic, for sure.”

“Well observed,” Mark replies, with a wry smile to match Fernando’s from a few seconds ago. “I don’t go for all that fuss.”

“Some people would call it politeness.”

“We’re both blokes, mate, if you want me to start buying you dinner you’ll have to start wearing a dress.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow, Mark returns the gesture, and somehow they figure out that neither of them are taking _that_ idea seriously, and start laughing again. Not at the moment, anyway…

“ _But_ , if you _insist_ , maybe I could make an exception this once… Tomorrow lunchtime, you, me, Silver Arrows. But don’t expect me to make a habit out of it.”

“A lunch date?” Fernando wrinkles his nose at the very concept.

“I work in the evenings, so unless you’re prepared to pay me for my time… And anyway, in your words you don’t _put out_ on a first date, so it’s not like it has to be in the evening, right?” Mark challenges in reply.

Fernando can’t help but smile. “I suppose if it is Silver Arrows then I will survive with just lunch…”

Mark’s smile is still gruff and dry, but Fernando knows him well enough already to know that’s perfectly normal.

Fernando raises a glass that still contains some of their concoctions. “Hasta mañana, then,” he smiles. Mark looks blank. “Until tomorrow,” Fernando sighs, at which Mark shakes his head, laughing, and finds another glass to raise. They toast, and down the contents, placing their glasses simultaneously on the granite counter with a _clink_.

“Tomorrow it is then.”

Fernando slides off his stool and swings his bag onto his shoulder, before leaning briefly across the bar once more.

“It was this one, I believe,” he says, pushing an almost empty classic martini glass towards Mark, who dips his fingers into the dregs and tastes them.

“Genius, mate. I better write that down before I forget.”

“I am glad I could help.” They exchange smiles, and Fernando turns to leave.

“Nando!” Fernando turns at the archway. “I have _no idea_ what to do with this stuff,” Mark says, waving his hands at all Fernando’s coffee brewing kit, still strewn along the bar.

“You should have been paying more attention, no?”

Mark laughs. “I had better things to pay attention to.”

Fernando preens, before giving Mark a careless wave, and finally leaving.

“If I break anything, it’s not my fault!” Mark calls, and he can hear Fernando’s answering laugh from down the corridor.


	17. Chapter 17

Nico is surprised to see Mark in the restaurant at lunchtime – from what Jens has told him about his friend, this doesn’t seem like his type of place. And from the slightly stiff, self-conscious way he holds himself as Nico shows him and Fernando to their table, Nico’s assumptions are correct there. Fernando, on the other hand, seems more than at home, not batting an eyelid when Mark pulls out his chair for him, and promptly ordering one of the most expensive bottles of red wine. Nico tries not to laugh as Mark winces at that, and puts two and two together – Jens has been talking about those two for ages now after all.

From what Nico can see from the front desk, the pass, and his rounds, it doesn’t seem that special a date - they talk, they laugh (a little), maybe even flirt a bit, then Mark pays (and Fernando looks mildly victorious), and it doesn’t appear to be particularly memorable. Maybe Jens was a little optimistic about those two’s chances…

But they linger at their table, and when they eventually call for the bill, Nico can feel a palpable chemistry in the air. It would be rude to listen in to diners’ conversations, but Nico can’t help if he catches anything from the till…

“So,” he hears Fernando say, swilling the wine in his glass and giving Mark one of his trademark raised-eyebrow looks, “you chose for the first date, I will choose for the second.”

Mark returns the expression almost exactly, but with an added tinge of apprehension. “Was this not up to your exacting standards, then?” he deadpans back.

“I did not say that. But the second date should be more, _personal_. My place. I will cook you dinner.”

Mark’s eyebrows stay up. “You can cook?”

Fernando shoots him a glare that has precisely no malice behind it. “Of course I can cook. Better than you I imagine.”

“On one condition.” A quirked eyebrow answers. “I’m bringing beers.”

Fernando looks disgusted, and Nico has to stifle a laugh. “Then I have one condition too,” Fernando replies.

“Oh?”

“I do not have to drink them.”

Mark laughs, a bit too loudly for the location. “Deal.”

Maybe Jenson was right about these two after all.


	18. Chapter 18

Sebastian is alone in the break room, in the maze of backrooms and offices behind the bar, flicking idly through a magazine. They’re due a delivery soon, and someone needs to be there to sign for it, otherwise he’d probably be on the beach right now – it’s glorious out there, bright sunshine and blue skies, and windy enough for decent waves in the bay just along the coast from Fia – perfect surfing weather. The break room though has no windows through which to even enjoy the sunshine, just those awful fluorescent striplights that Christian complains give him a headache. Sebastian sighs, and flips the page.

“Seb?”

He looks up. Tommi’s standing in the doorway, looking serious – more serious than Sebastian’s ever seen him – and uncharacteristically guilty.

“Tommi? What’s up?”

“Are you busy?”

“Do I look busy?” Sebastian laughs.

Tommi doesn’t laugh.

He sits down on the other sofa, stares very intently at his hands, and then looks Sebastian with an odd determination.

“I’m leaving, Seb.”

The words are so unexpected that they take a moment to process.

“You’re _leaving_?” Sebastian frowns in disbelief.

“I’ve been offered a job back home, and, well, I’m taking it. I handed my notice in to Christian this morning. It’s, effective immediately.”

For a moment Sebastian doesn’t say anything – there’s a cacophony of questions in his head, too loud to figure out straight away which one is the most important.

“But, what about here? What about _me_?” are the two questions that win out. It’s selfish, he knows that, to want Tommi to stay and be there and all his when he can’t do the same in return, but Sebastian wouldn’t be Sebastian if he didn’t always want everything and more.

“You will be fine. This place will be fine. Neither of you need me as much as you want to think you do.”

Sebastian hasn’t got an answer for that.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” is all he can eventually ask.

“You would have tried to stop me. And you probably would have succeeded,” Tommi admits. “I need to do this, Seb,” and it sounds like a plea. “I can’t stay like this.”

Sebastian doesn’t think he’s been this lost for words in a long time. Not since Kimi left… _What is it with him and Finns?_ But that hadn’t been the same as this.

“I don’t want you to go.” He doesn’t stop to worry if he sounds petulant or childish. He probably does, but he doesn’t care.

“I know you don’t, but… I love you, Seb, but, you don’t really love me, do you?” Despite the pauses it sounds rehearsed, like he’s known he’s going to have to say it for a long time.

The immediate denial, _of course he loves him, why does he even think that,_ is already starting out of Sebastian’s mouth, but it catches in his throat at Tommi’s expression, that just says _Don’t, not now._

Instead, Sebastian does the very least he feels Tommi deserves from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Tommi’s shrug is a careless gesture, as if to brush the apology off, but his tone is completely sincere, thankful even.

There’s another awkward pause (Sebastian doesn’t think he’s ever had so many in one conversation before) in which the lights buzz and the air-conditioning whirrs.

“I wouldn’t have tried to stop you,” he says, quietly. “Not if this is what you really want.”

The reply is an odd-sounding laugh. “And I don’t know if that would have been better or worse.”

Tommi hesitates, and then moves to sit on the sofa next to Sebastian. He runs his hand through Sebastians’s hair, making him look up from some unremarkable spot of floor, and kisses him, tenderly, softly, _goodbye_. Sebastian clutches at his shirt, pulling him closer, but Tommi holds the kiss as it is, before slowly breaking it. He smiles sadly. “I’m sorry too. And,” another shrug, “you’re forgiven, Sebi.”

Tommi stands up, walks out the door, and that’s it, he’s gone.

Sebastian will be ok – he knows Tommi was right there. In fact, he’ll probably be far too ok far too soon, and feel terribly guilty about that. Right now though, he’s not ok, and the break room feels even more bare and empty than it did before.


	19. Chapter 19

A final gift of equipment from the MTCanteen is all Williams needs to reopen, and a few days later they make it official. If anything, it’s busier than the last time they were open, but tonight it’s Fia’s own, rather than Spanish tourists, that fill the tables and exhaust Bruno’s carefully chosen wine cellar. As the days pass though life settles down, with evening service soon calming to a manageable level, and lunchtimes becoming swiftly as quiet as they always have been.

It’s another one of those traditionally quiet lunchtimes when Bruno is back in the window, watching the world go by, and being quietly amazed at how fast things change, and how fast they go back to normal. People are remarkable at taking things in their stride, he thinks. Himself included.

Somewhere along the line, he’d realised that the texts from Karun had stopped being the highlight of his day. It was strange, because he doesn’t feel like they had become any less important, or even that the happy feeling he got in his chest when they arrived lessened at all, but it had stopped feeling like his entire world was waiting for the next one. He flicks through the messages on his phone like he always has done, but this time it’s just between the last two.

_[[ I’m sorry Karun, but this just doesn’t feel like it’s working anymore. ]]_

The reply had arrived a couple of hours later.

_[[ I thought as much. I’m so sorry. We knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but at least we gave it a go, I guess. ]]_

For the first time in months, Bruno hadn’t texted back.

Looking at the messages gives him more than just a twinge of sadness, but it doesn’t hurt as much as he had thought it might. They’d drifted, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Being thousands of miles apart will do that. And there are other things that make him smile, he realises, that make him feel warm again, instead of just feeling lost in this town of high achievers and even higher expectations.

Or rather, not things, but _people_. _Person_ , in fact. That same person who has just come in _again_ to the restaurant, who Bruno knows he doesn’t have to ask for his order, because it’s always the same. The person who keeps everything close to his chest, but for whom Bruno knows that anything they do let through is completely genuine, and far stronger than it appears at face value.

Which makes the wide and honest smile that breaks across Vitaly’s face when he sees his friend an absolute (but very well-timed) revelation to the musing waiter.

When Bruno grins, _properly_ grins in reply to the silent greeting, it almost makes Vitaly _stop_ smiling in shock. Because he’s not seen Bruno smile at anyone like that in a long while, and the person it was last directed at is currently on the other side of the world.

“I was thinking,” Bruno says, before Vitaly has a chance to sit down, or even marshal his expression into something a little less stunned, “that maybe we could go somewhere else today? There’s no one here, I can close up, and no one will mind…”

Vitaly nods, slowly. Bruno beams like a lighthouse, throws his apron onto a table, and yells to Pastor that he’s going out, and he’ll be back for the evening service.

“You said you would close up…” Vitaly says, as Bruno just flips the sign on the door and ushers his friend out into the street.

“It says closed now, no?” Bruno replies with a mischievous grin, grabbing Vitaly’s wrist and dragging him into the street.


	20. Chapter 20

The match is underway, the floodlights on against the twilight sky, Sporting Fia in black and white against Nascar Utd in red, white, and blue. Bruno sits by himself near the edge of the small crowd of spectators in the grandstand, busy trying to keep up with what’s going on when the view is so much different from the bird’s-eye tv shots he’s used to. There are a few people he knows in the crowd; there’s Rob, right at the front, cheering wildly with a yell of _“Who’s the daddy!”_ whenever Felipe gets the ball, Kamui is keeping Checo company on the subs bench, on the front row Jenson and Mark are clearly not the biggest fans, but seem to be enjoying themselves anyhow, and the waitresses from Red Bull appear to be having a dance party whenever the slightest decision goes Sporting Fia’s way…

The opposition are a tough bunch, who tackle rough and bulldoze their way around the pitch, whilst the home team have a more polished, but almost cheeky style – periods of lazy passing interspersed with flashes of skill – and are fairly easily outplaying the other team. Felipe and Sebastian are decent in the midfield, and Bruno laughs as his friend lives up to the stereotype, diving and sliding, and making the most of the other team’s clumsy tackles with exaggerated tumbles and arms thrown wide in animated pleas to the referees. Alonso would be a great forward if he spent less time trying to show off, with fancy footwork and overly-clever tricks that usually make him lose the ball to the no-nonsense approach of the opposition. Vitaly, however, is clearly the star striker – almost unstoppable up front, throwing all his power behind his shots to crash them into the back of the net, and completely unafraid of the other team’s occasionally more than just robust defence. Then there’s Jaime and Nico R; the pretty boys on the wings, who skip and dance with the ball and dash down the field, outpacing the bulkier opposition, whilst the old guard of Liuzzi, Trulli, and Fisichella make up Fia’s own defensive line, along with Nick, who is more than capable in goal.

It’s 2-0 at half time, and once Michael has given them a quick pep-talk, reminding them not to take it easy in the second half, Felipe bounds over to the grandstands.

“Bruno! I did not expect to see you here!” Bruno _would_ hug him, but Felipe is sweaty, with his hair clinging to his forehead and his shirt to his chest, and there are limits…

“Vitaly persuaded me to come,” he replies.

Felipe cocks his head to one side. “Really?”

Bruno doesn’t have chance to answer though before Felipe’s attention is entirely stolen by Rob, who sneaks up behind Felipe and wraps his arms around his waist. Rob (unsurprisingly) doesn’t appear to have limits where Felipe is concerned.

“Playing well, sunshine.”

“I always do,” Felipe beams in reply.

“Arrogant git.” Rob lets go to kiss Felipe’s nose and fluff his damp hair fondly. “That tackle just outside the box though, you weren’t hurt at all, were you?”

“I had to _try_ for the free kick, no?”

“Well, no, not really…” But Rob’s still smiling as he answers.

Bruno can’t help but feel slightly awkward as Rob and Felipe’s world narrows down to just each other, so he slips away as subtly as he can. At the front of the crowd he can see that Sebastian has beaten Nico to Jenson, and is now leaning on the railing and flirting outrageously, much to Mark’s amusement and Nico’s obvious disgust from where he’s hanging back, glaring. Really though, there isn’t anyone else that Bruno knows, so he certainly isn’t complaining when Vitaly wanders over, hopping to adjust his shin pads and looking utterly delighted (in his quiet, guarded way) that Bruno is actually there.

“Alright, I admit it, I should have come to a game sooner.”

Bruno receives a surprisingly playful nudge. “Next you will join us, you will see.” Vitaly doesn’t really have an expression for smug, but Bruno reckons this is probably his closest approximation.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he counters.

Vitaly just keeps smiling, and leaves it there. “So how you think we play tonight?”

Usually Vitaly is one of the first back in position when the whistle blows to end half time, but this time promises to wait for each other after the final whistle take priority, and only Nico and Felipe (who are _always_ last back) arrive after him.


	21. Chapter 21

Vitaly knows Bruno is affectionate, he’s Latin after all, all dazzling smiles and sunshine, and little touches that make his skin fizz, but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared for quite how it makes him feel when the other man lolls contentedly onto his shoulder, giggling. It would be so easy just to move his arm from where it lies on the back of the sofa to around Bruno’s shoulders, just to hold him there, and he’s probably too drunk to remember in the morning anyway… But Vitaly won’t take advantage, not even in that minuscule way.

They’d come back from the match to Vitaly’s flat, where Bruno had ordered takeaway whilst Vitaly had had the fastest shower known to man, and after dinner they’d cracked open a bottle of vodka – after all, Bruno had argued, they had to celebrate a hat-trick, and Vitaly couldn’t refuse that grin – and they’d had one, or maybe two, more than was probably sensible. Or at least Bruno had, anyway.

“How are you still this sober?” Bruno asks, leaning closer and sliding down so that his head is on Vitaly’s chest, and practically _snuggles_ there. “You have drunk _far_ more than me!”

Vitaly shrugs uncertainly, paying more attention to the warmth of Bruno’s body against his than the question itself. “You are smaller than me,” he replies, when Bruno looks up at him with those wide eyes, clearly waiting for an answer.

“And you should be more tired, you were the one playing football.”

“True, but you have had long few weeks.”

Bruno sighs, and seems to give up, and much to Vitaly’s relief sits up from where he’s leaning against the far-too-sober-for-all-this other man. But his relief is short-lived, because Bruno promptly lies down with his _head in Vitaly’s lap…_

“Not there,” he says, giving Bruno’s shoulders a gentle push, trying not to seem as frankly panicked as he feels – Bruno’s head is dangerously close to his crotch, and it would be more than mortifying if he moved and _felt_ the effect he’s having on him, the effect that is decidedly worse when Bruno just needs to turn his head and he could…

Bruno is not to be pushed though, and settles himself in with a cheeky grin. “Why not?” he asks, his eyes falling shut and putting one hand behind his head, and _oh god please don’t run the back of your hand up my thigh like that_ , Vitaly silently begs.

“You cannot sleep there.” Vitaly tries again, this time attempting to lift Bruno off his lap, and when there’s no luck there, he struggles out sideways, and Bruno’s head falls off his thighs and onto the sofa cushions with a gentle thump. He looks backwards up at Vitaly and almost pouts.

“But you are comfy. And I’m not sure trying to make it home is a good idea like this.”

Vitaly has to agree with that… “If you want to stay here, that is ok, but you cannot sleep on my lap.” Bruno hums a reply. “I will get you blanket then,” the hum becomes a discontented noise, “or, you can stay in my room,” Bruno’s eyes flicker open, and Vitaly convinces himself that he’s imagining that expression, “and I will sleep here,” and the expression is gone again.

“I will not throw you out of your own room,” Bruno says, rolling onto his side as Vitaly stands up. “Wait…” Bruno reaches out semi-blindly and eventually grabs Vitaly’s wrist, pulling him back until he sags to his knees in front of the sofa, leaning on the edge and looking down at Bruno, who props himself up slightly.

“You are ok?” Vitaly asks, looking concerned, but Bruno waves at him again, batting his nose fondly, and then placing his fingers on Vitaly’s lips, to hush any further worries. Vitaly’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t say anything more, waiting until Bruno’s fingers eventually fall away. Bruno’s eyes are soft and his face slightly flushed, and if that hadn’t taken up all his attention Vitaly would be embarrassed about the impression of a rabbit in the headlights he’s currently doing in reply. Then Bruno swipes his thumb across Vitaly’s lips, and he can’t hold Bruno’s gaze anymore.

“I like you,” Bruno says, quietly, and it’s stupid and childish and sounds far too sincere. “And I like your eyes…” Another careless wave at his face. “They say more than you think.”

Vitaly laughs shyly. “You say more than you think,” he eventually replies. “But that is because you are drunk.”

Bruno laughs in reply. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

Vitaly pulls away, and stands up. “I will get you blanket.”

When Vitaly returns, Bruno is fast asleep, stretched out on the sofa with his tshirt riding up his stomach to reveal golden skin and a trail of dark hair. Vitaly places the blanket gently over him, leaves a glass of water on the floor beside the sofa ( _He’ll need it_ , he thinks), and retreats to his own room, where he locks the door and jerks himself off to the memories of that soft-looking stomach, the feel of that hand on his thigh, the warm look on that flushed face, and the guilty fantasy of touching that gorgeous tanned body, that had looked like he could have taken anything from.

*

Bruno is woken by the sounds of Vitaly at the fridge and on the phone on the other side of the main room, talking away in a low voice in Russian, probably a business call from the tone. He stretches, and rolls over, his neck and back protesting at the night spent on the sofa, and he groans. At the sound Vitaly turns from the counter, ending his phone call remarkably quickly. Bruno peers around the arm of the sofa and waves groggily, his face screwed into a sleepy almost-grimace.

“How is your head?” Vitaly asks, the wide-eyed, serious look replaced by a fond, almost teasing smile.

Bruno chuckles. “Good morning to you too. And not great,” he admits. “You,” he waves accusingly, “look far too well.”

“You just cannot handle your vodka,” Vitaly smiles, and turns back to the kettle. Even in the morning, without the haze of the drink itself, Bruno is far too fond of how he says that word. He sits up and untangles himself from the blanket, scrubbing his hand through his unruly hair and taking a swig from the glass on the floor.

“Next time we will drink wine, and I will drink you under the table,” Bruno says, standing up somewhat unsteadily, and he wanders into the kitchen area to lean against the table.

“I doubt that,” Vitaly replies with a smile, and Bruno laughs. And then groans.

“And next time, I will take you up on the offer to not sleep on the sofa.”

Vitaly turns to look at Bruno. “You remember that?” he asks, slightly more sharply than he intends.

Bruno nods. “I remember it all,” he says, looking straight at Vitaly. There’s no apology for possible misunderstandings, no fumbled awkwardness or denial. “I don’t forget when I drink. Or say things I don’t mean.”

For a moment Vitaly just stares. Then he steps forward, his nerves showing only as a slightly dark frown, and rests his hand on Bruno’s hip, and when the action is almost immediately mirrored he leans down to kiss him, firmly but chastely and with a cautious determination, the edge of the table digging into the back of Bruno’s thighs and Vitaly’s other hand resting on his cheek.

When he doesn’t kiss back though, Vitaly pulls away, eyes down, the apologies about misunderstanding him already coming out in a mumble. But then Bruno’s nudging at his nose and is smiling that absurdly bright smile, and he’s being pulled into what Bruno will later describe as a _proper_ kiss, that ticks off a good number of clichés. Vitaly makes a funny low noise, and grabs handfuls of Bruno’s sleep-crinkled tshirt, pulling him right in close and ignoring the alcohol-roughened taste because there isn’t space in his head for anything other than the fact that _he’s kissing Bruno._

“And next time,” Bruno almost whispers a few moments later, right next to Vitaly’s mouth, “you won’t have to sleep on the sofa either. I don’t take up much space…”

Vitaly responds with an almost possessive growl and a much more selfish kiss, followed by a heartfelt curse that either of them have to go to work that day.


	22. Chapter 22

Things hadn’t got any better at the café – Felipe was still definitely in the management’s bad books, his final warning hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, whilst Fernando had become everyone’s favourite all over again, and to top it off had just qualified for the regional barista championship… with one of _Felipe’s_ drinks, based on one of Rob’s tweaks… Felipe felt like he was disappearing, and was just grateful that Rob was there, to walk him home from work, to keep him distracted when his thoughts threatened to spiral in on themselves, and to remind him that there was _someone_ , even if it was only one person, who still cared about him.

“We should go out somewhere,” Rob announced, whilst the two of them were sprawled on Rob’s sofa together. It was always Rob’s sofa – Felipe had almost stopped going back to his own house now (especially when everything he needed to stay over at a moment’s notice was already at Rob’s place) and Rob had given up even suggesting otherwise (even though his tiny flat struggled to take the whirlwind of untidiness that was his little Brazilian boyfriend on the increasingly permanent basis. And there _really_ wasn’t room for both of them in that shower…).

The rain was pouring down outside, dark grey skies beyond the windows that were streaked with trickles of lighter grey, making the glass seem to flow and shimmer in the weak daylight. It was the type of weather that Felipe always said should make Rob feel more at home – compared to the perpetual sunshine they were usually blessed with – but in reality this warm summer shower was nothing like the uniquely British drizzle.

“Why? Can’t we stay in?” Just because Felipe thought Rob liked the weather didn’t mean he liked it himself. Or saw any reason to leave the warmth of Rob’s flat when it was wet outside.

“Because you’re moping.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” Rob kisses Felipe before he can get the inevitable reply of _Am not_ out of his mouth. “No questions, we’re going out. We can’t stay cooped up in here all evening. I’ll let you pick where though.”

Felipe gives in, and screws his nose up as he thinks around the town. “Sauber,” he eventually replies. “I have not been there in a long time. The hot chocolate is very good. Perfect for this weather, no?”

Rob grins, stands up, and holds his hand out to Felipe. “Alright sunshine, let’s go!”

“There is no sunshine!” Felipe corrects, pulling himself to his feet.

“There is when you’re around. Now c’mon, where’s your coat?”

*

Chocolats de Sauber was an old shop on the edge of the town centre, run by Peter and, these days, more by Monisha (who had come to town as an apprentice many years before, and was now in line to take over the business). The roof was steep, the leaded windows were always full of precarious piles of truffles, caramels, pralines, and liqueurs, and upstairs there was a tiny seating area of worn and mismatching chairs and tables all crammed together, making space for no more than a handful of people to enjoy the town’s best hot chocolate (a claim which not even Café Ferrari tried to contest).

Felipe and Rob push their way through the door, shaking the rain off their oversized umbrella. The counter is unattended, just the sound of the two young lads, Kamui and Checo, laughing together in the small break-room out back. If Felipe’s time there was anything to go by, they’re probably polishing off the reject chocolates, and quite possibly making some fairly suspect decisions on what counts as a “reject”…

It’s Monisha herself who appears from out back to take their orders (two signature over-the-top hot chocolates, huge china mugs with heaps of whipped cream and a diabetes-inducing array of toppings and sprinkles) and whilst Felipe had worked more for Peter, that doesn’t mean the two of them aren’t pleased to see each other, leaving Rob happy to stand back and peruse the shelves, watching out of the corner of his eye Felipe smile as he chats.

She promises to send their order up to them, and starts to shoo them up the stairs, shouting to the boys out back to make the drinks. But they’re just about to disappear around the corner when,

“Oh Felipe, have you heard?” Monisha calls, leaning on the top of the display case, “I totally forgot – Checo has applied for an apprenticeship with Café Ferrari! They’ve asked him back for an interview later in the month. Following in your footsteps, isn’t he? We’re all so proud of him here!”

Felipe smiles, widely, offering his congratulations to the kid behind the counter, but Rob can see straight through it – all the stress and the worry of the past weeks is pulling his expression taut at the edges. Rob smiles too, just as falsely, and drags Felipe quickly up the stairs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, we shouldn’t have come here,” Rob apologises once they’ve taken their seats at the tiny table by the window upstairs.

Felipe shrugs and waves it off, but he looks just as depressed as he did earlier. “Was not your suggestion, I chose here. Anyway, everyone knows I have been in trouble… They think I am a liability at work. They were looking to replace me even months ago, before you turned up,” he admits, rubbing at his watch, “because I kept breaking things.” Felipe looks up. “It was much better after you helped me, but,” he shrugs again, “well, I still do not think they like me like they used to.” Felipe smiles sadly, and Rob reaches out to take his hand across the tabletop. “I miss working with Kimi, and Ross, and Michael, and I miss Rubens, and…” He trails off. “Things were better then.”

“And they will get better again, Felipe, I’m sure they will.”

Felipe doesn’t look like he believes that one jot.

It’s probably not a coincidence that it’s Kamui, rather than Checo, who brings their giant hot chocolates, giving them a sheepish smile before vanishing again quickly.

For a moment neither of them say anything, Felipe poking at the mini marshmallows from the top of his drink, Rob just watching him. Then, with his long spoon Rob scoops up a bit of his whipped cream, and whilst Felipe is still staring moodily at his drink, bops him on the nose, leaving a small blob of cream behind. Felipe protests, swearing colourfully and not entirely seriously, then crosses his eyes and attempts to lick it off, his ridiculous facial contortions making Rob snort his own drink out through his own nose with laughter, and Felipe is grinning again already. Distraction – always the key to cheering Felipe up. Actually, that’s not quite right – distraction, and then Rob making a prat of himself, he thinks as he mops the front of his shirt, _that’s_ the key.

*

The rain stops whilst they’re enjoying their drinks, and by the time they’re ready to leave the sky has blown perfectly clear. Even through the window they can see the stars coming out in the twilight.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Rob says, more of an announcement than a suggestion.

“Why? It will be cold.”

“It’ll also be stunning. Sure I can’t convince you?”

It may be Felipe who is _known_ for his puppy-dog eyes, but that doesn’t mean that Rob can’t get his way with the right expression at the right moment, and Felipe gives in almost immediately. Whilst they may be out to cheer up Felipe, Rob knows that making Felipe make Rob happy makes Felipe happy, and by some backwards crazy logic Rob knows that if Felipe is whining and moaning like that then he’s actually cheering up…

They pay up, and head down through the puddles in the streets to the sea front, and along the promenade until they’re out of the lights and into the dark of the dunes.

It should be every cliché in the book, the two of them lying on their coats on the sand, Rob pointing out the constellations and planets that sparkle in the crystal sky, every point of light magnified and brightened thanks to the day’s rain. Felipe doesn’t care about clichés though, and just thinks it’s perfect. It feels like they’re a million miles away from everything and everyone, from the café and all those worries, from anything other than the sound of the waves and the stars above them.

“Look, see that thing moving?” Rob asks, pointing upwards to a dot that’s travelling quickly across the glittering backdrop.

“Yes, is a plane, why you show me that?”

“Nope, not a plane, it’s a satellite. Watch, see how it’s getting dimmer?” Felipe squints (not that that will achieve anything), and sure enough, it’s starting to fade. “In three, two, one…” It vanishes from the sky.

“How…?” Felipe asks, looking at Rob like he’d just made an entire star disappear.

Rob chuckles, and begins to explain about angles and speeds, about the reflection from the sun that set hours ago now, about the lack of flashing lights that would characterise a plane… Felipe is always more than happy to indulge Rob when he starts talking technical, even if most of it usually goes right over his head; there’s something about that accent – the northern English drawl with the Italian twangs over the top – that he could listen to for hours.

“Did you hear any of that?” Rob laughs, rolling onto his side slightly to face the other man. Felipe was listening, of course he was, but perhaps he was looking at the way the stars gleam in Rob’s eyes as well, and how actually, that might be more beautiful than the view above them.

He doesn’t say that though, or Rob will mock him for days for being a soppy git.

“Of course.” The chilly night air sends a shiver through his whole body, and even in the dark he can tell Rob is concerned.

“Do you want to head back?” he asks. Felipe shakes his head.

“Not at all. Is beautiful here.”

“Hang on then.” Rob sits up, and unzips his jumper. He pulls Felipe up into a sitting position, wraps the jumper around his shoulders, and then leans the younger man closer to him. Felipe snuggles up, letting his eyes fall shut as he inhales _Rob_ from his jumper and his chest.

“Warmer now?”

Felipe mumbles an affirmative. “Much better. But won’t you be cold?”

Rob laughs, and Felipe can feel the vibrations rumble in his chest. “Don’t be silly. I’m British. This is still tropical as far as I’m concerned.”

Felipe smiles, wraps an arm around Rob’s waist, and decides that actually, _now_ it’s perfect.


	23. Chapter 23

“Your hair’s getting long again, Britney.” Jenson runs his fingers through Nico’s ever-growing locks, where he lies with his head in Jenson’s lap, lazing on their beach towels. The sky is storybook-blue and cloudless, the sun and the sand baking hot, the breeze cool, and the beach full of drifting laughter and relaxed voices, all over the gentle noise of the waves.

“What have I told you about that name, Jenson?”

“Oh shush, Britney. How about I let you pick a name for me as well? You can call me… Cake Boy.”

Nico snorts, his nose wrinkling (adorably so, in Jenson’s mind). “That’s the worst nickname ever. Can I just call you _idiot_ and have done with it?”

“Mm, can I just kiss you and have done with it?”

“No, you cannot ‘just’ kiss me,” Nico replies, rolling round to press their lips together, into which Jenson hums happily.

(“Michael! Put me down!” Felipe squeaks, “I am not _that_ short!” The moment his feet touch the ground though the volleyball sails over his head, and lands in the sand behind them. Michael shakes his head with a playfully patronising smile, and spreads his hands. Felipe just makes a rude hand gesture, and throws the ball straight at Michael’s head.)

“That’s fair enough, I _suppose_ …” Jenson eventually replies, “but when do I get the rest then? You may be my little exhibitionist, but I don’t think the rest of town would appreciate it if I decided to make slow, passionate love to you right here…” Jenson’s voice lingers on the words, attempting to sound seductive and persuasive.

Nico just laughs. “And you always tell me _I’m_ impatient.”

“You are, all the time, my little sex maniac, so surely it’s my turn?”

“Well this time I’m making you wait. I’m working on my suntan. There’s too much sand here, anyway.”

Jenson sighs exaggeratedly, and lies back on the towel, pushing his sunglasses back down and putting his hands behind his head.

“You’re a cruel, cruel person.”

“I learnt from the best, for sure.”

For a moment they lie in silence, listening to the other people on the beach, and feeling the sun warm them right into their bones.

(“Oh come _on_!” comes a plaintive cry from further down the beach, Sebastian outplayed by Kimi again with a dropshot over the net that leaves the young German sprawling face down on the sand. Kimi says nothing, just spinning his racquet in his hand.)

Then,

“You don’t even tan, Britney.”

Nico twists his head backwards to semi-glare at Jenson. “Yes I do. _You_ don’t, you just get freckles.”

“And damn attractive freckles they are too, though I say so myself.”

“And you say _I’m_ the vain one.”

“Clearly we’re well suited for each other.”

Nico huffs again. “Sometimes I think you just like me because I’m a pastry chef.”

“Not _just_. But you don’t see me complaining when you come home tasting of sugary sweetness.” Jenson props himself up again. “It suits you, darling.”

Nico laughs derisively. “Is that even a compliment?”

“Sorry, my tough, strong, sexy boy, do you not like being called sweet?”

“About as much as I like _Britney_.”

Jenson lets himself fall back onto the towel with a flump. “There’s no pleasing you today, is there?”

“Oh there’s plenty pleasing me.”

“Oh?” Jenson’s eyebrows go up. “Do tell…”

Nico rolls around again, folding his arms on Jenson’s chest and sitting his chin on his forearms. “Promise you won’t tease? Or I won’t tell.”

Jenson sighs again, but he’s smiling. “Scout’s honour.”

Nico leans down to Jenson’s ear, and whispers something inaudible, but which makes Jenson’s smile turn wicked.

“And why would I tease you for that?” he asks, his voice much lower than before.

“Because I want it _now_.”

Jenson laughs. “Impatience is a virtue, Britney. I think it’s time to go home – it _is_ getting a bit hot out here…”

*

Jenson doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful that Nico’s flat is close to the beach, and they practically sprint up the concrete stairs that run up the outside of the block, falling against the door and almost giggling as Jenson interferes with the unlocking process with his inability to keep his hands, or mouth, off Nico’s body.

Eventually the door opens, and they fall through it, shutting it with a joint full body movement as Jenson pushes Nico up against the wood.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up the side of Nico’s neck, and grinding their hips together as Nico squirms. “You taste delicious.”

“Why don’t you taste me properly then, hm?” Nico teases.

“Oh, but that’s the opposite of what you said you wanted to do.”

Nico smirks, his nose crinkling again (and doesn’t that just make Jenson want to do _filthy_ things to him), and then he pushes Jenson backwards, until with a final flourish of a shove Jenson falls back into the armchair. Nico is almost glistening with the sunshine on his sweat-sheened skin, blond hair bleached even paler, shorts low on his hips and short-sleeved shirt hanging open, and looking, well, _angelic_ isn’t the right word, not with that expression, but certainly like some divine temptation sent to ensure that Jenson never gets a full night’s sleep when he’s around.

Nico swings his hips as he stalks over, putting his hands on the arms of the chair and leaning down, his mouth right close to Jenson’s, his breath hot on already heated skin.

“So you want me to get on with it then, do you? Impatience is a virtue, I think you said?”

“I’m convinced it’s the only virtue you have, you delightfully sinful thing,” Jenson breathes, hands settling on Nico’s hips. Nico smirks again, and Jenson just wants to drag him to the bedroom and fuck him until he’s so far gone that he can’t remember his own name. Oh, and wipe that smirk off his face, too.

“Be nice, or I’ll leave you waiting.”

“You wouldn’t. You _couldn’t_.” The second is more confident than the first. This is Nico after all.

Nico crushes their lips together, Jenson’s hands wandering up Nico’s waist, under his shirt and over warm skin, but then Nico takes hold of Jenson’s wrists, pulls them away, and holds them against the back of the chair behind Jenson’s head, not even breaking the kiss. Jenson makes a frustrated noise, and Nico smiles against his lips.

“You didn’t say I wasn’t allowed to touch,” Jenson whines.

Nico just laughs. “Well I’m saying it now. No touching.”

Jenson makes an even more frustrated noise, and drops his head back onto the armchair back.

“But…”

Nico hushes him with a finger on his lips, Jenson’s wrists now held in one hand. Jenson just whines again, and Nico chuckles, trailing his fingers down from Jenson’s lips, down his neck, then down his chest, fingers then brushing over the soft trail of hair just below his navel that’s visible where his tshirt has ridden up. Jenson’s skin is hot to the touch, and his face and neck flushed.

“You look all hot and bothered,” Nico almost drawls, and he tugs at the bottom of Jenson’s tshirt until he leans forward enough for it to be pulled off over his head, and delicately dropped onto the floor beside them.

“How do you make it look like a strip-show when you’re not even the one stripping?” Jenson practically moans, as Nico leans in for another kiss.

“Just my natural talent for making you weak at the knees,” he replies, and bites down on Jenson’s bottom lip, pulling it away and then sliding off his lap to stand. He shrugs out of his own shirt with a seductively fluid movement, and Jenson just groans.

Then Nico drops to his knees, his hair falling in front of his face as he pulls Jenson’s shorts down and off, and licks his lips. Jenson is hard already, and it makes Nico smirk again – he can’t help but love the ego trip from seeing how easily Jenson gets turned on by him. The hot musky scent of sweat and arousal fills Nico’s nose as he leans in close, and he inhales as much as he can, letting it flood through him, making his skin prickle and his own shorts starting to feel uncomfortably tight. Then, with a wicked glance up at the man above him, he flicks his tongue across the slit, the strong, salty taste exploding on his tongue, and Jenson’s cock jumps in time with an almost desperate moan, his legs falling open further.

Nico’s tongue swirls around the end, and he lightly wraps his hand around the base. Then he bobs his head and takes just the tip into his mouth. Jenson didn’t think he could get any harder or any hotter, but it feels like the temperature in the flat just went up another few degrees, and he clamps his mouth shut and refuses to beg just yet.

Nico teases for a little longer, before pulling off and getting to his feet. Then he leans in to tap Jenson on the nose.

“Shut your eyes,” he murmurs.

“And take my eyes off you?”

Nico can’t help but grin. “Shut them,” he replies, more firmly, and Jenson complies.

Jenson knows what’s coming, Nico had told him at the beach after all, but waiting there with his eyes closed, even for a few moments, his skin still sticky and prickling with sweat and lust, straining his ears to hear when Nico returns, is sweet, sweet torture, and if anything, he’s getting even harder.

Nico would swear the icecube hisses when it touches Jenson’s chest, his skin almost burning hot from sun and desire combined, but the noises came from Jenson’s mouth, and they morph into a shameless moan as the icecube starts to melt, trickles of cold water running down the ripples of his muscles and pooling in his navel. Jenson’s eyes had flown open at the very first contact, and he watches as Nico traces patterns in the water on his stomach. Next Nico runs second icecube runs from his ankle to the top of his thigh, goosebumps following in its path, and the water droplets soaking into the armchair cushions. It’s agonisingly delicious, almost painfully cold against almost painfully hot skin, and incredibly sensual, every nerve in Jenson’s body firing.

Then ice cold fingers run down his neck, and he shivers, making Nico giggle slightly.

“Cooler now?” he whispers into Jenson’s ear.

“Mmm,” Jenson groans.

“I suppose I should stop teasing then.”

“You just can’t wait anymore.”

Nico nips on his earlobe as an answer.

Then Nico is on his knees again, popping an icecube into his mouth and then sliding his lips down Jenson’s cock. Jenson throws his head back with a gasp as hot and cold mix with tight and filthy, Nico’s cheeks and tongue tight around his length as temperature and pressure make him buck his hips and thrust even deeper into Nico’s mouth.

As Nico starts to suck, and the shock of the cold wears off, Jenson is reduced to incoherent curses, his fingers tangling in Nico’s hair, _no touching_ long forgotten. Then Nico starts to speed up, swiping his tongue over the tip as he goes, and Jenson knows that this isn’t going to take long. He comes hard, right down Nico’s throat with a desperate groan.

When the world comes back into focus, Nico is straddling his lap and kissing him, Jenson’s own taste strong on his lips and tongue. He’d never known it could be so damn sexy until the first time Nico had kissed him afterwards, all those months ago, but now he’s not even sure if there _is_ a sexier taste.

Then Nico pulls back. “Now I want you to fuck me.” His voice is dark and husky.

Jenson has pretty much lost all coherent words, and attempts to pull him down for another kiss, but Nico pulls back, and arches his eyebrows.

“Jenson,” he says, warningly, wriggling slightly in Jenson’s lap. “ _Now_.” He picks up one of Jenson’s hands and starts to slowly suck his fingers, each in turn, never breaking eye contact even once. Then he takes that hand and slips it into his own shorts, guiding it until the slick fingers are pressing gently at his entrance.

Jenson doesn’t need telling twice, sliding his fingers in and stretching Nico open easily, pulling him down into his lap harder until he can feel Nico’s cock solid against his stomach, and drinking in the sight of his eyes fluttering closed and his mouth rounding in pleasure, breathy little gasps escaping as he shamelessly begs for more. And hell, if he isn’t getting hard again already.

“Bedroom?” Jenson manages to breathe, words coming back to him, and he crooks his fingers, reducing Nico to a desperate high-pitched whine as he pushes back and down, panting. “I said, bedroom?” Jenson accompanies the second question with another twist, and is answered with another gasped noise.

“Yes, _yes,_ anywhere!”

Jenson grins, sliding his fingers out, and Nico struggles to his feet.

“Lead the way, Britney.”

Nico is too busy pulling Jenson up and dragging him to the bedroom to even notice the choice of nickname.


	24. Chapter 24

Martin can’t think of a decent analogy for life at the MTCanteen at the moment. Perhaps like walking a tightrope, always at risk of falling off but looking damn impressive until you do. Or like a swan, looking serene on top but paddling like mad behind the scenes. Either way though, he doesn’t really have time at the moment to give _any_ analogies enough thought to make them make sense. It had been a tough couple of weeks, and it didn’t look like it was going to get easier anytime soon, not with Lewis getting in trouble in town, and not paying attention at work (earning him several complaints from disgruntled, or just downright offended customers), broken fridges and ovens ruining entire batches of pastries and cakes on several different days now (earning even _more_ complaints – Martin was getting well and truly bored of the call, “I want to speak to the manager!”), and yet business still booming on top of all that (there was no denying the quality of Jenson’s crowd-pulling creations, especially the Apfelstrudel and Sachertorte, that more than likely had a couple of Silver Arrows’ trade secrets in them as well), making sure that there was barely a spare moment to take a deep breath and regroup – it was quite simply non-stop.

“Ah, fuck’s sake, man!” Lewis suddenly exclaims, and customers look up from their tables to demonstrate their shock and disapproval. Martin sighs, and strides over to Lewis, plucking the phone out of his hand and putting it in his own pocket.

“You can have that back at the end of the day,” he says, feeling like a schoolteacher. “Every time you even _look_ at it you get distracted.”

Lewis starts to complain, _Oh c’mon, Martin, really?_ but Martin is having none of it, and retreats to the kitchens, leaving Lewis to throw his cloth into the sink with barely concealed infuriation.

“What was all that about?” Jenson asks, when Martin visibly sags when the door is shut behind him.

“What do you think?” Martin rubs his forehead.

“Well I know it was Lewis, but…”

Martin sighs again. “Adrian,” he says, and Jenson looks surprised. He hadn’t known that Martin was aware of the Adrian Situation.

“Oh?”

“Overheard them arguing particularly badly on the phone the other day, about the same time all _this_ started.”

“Ah. That explains a lot.”

“No idea what’s going on. I hear Adrian’s not having the easiest time of late, but beyond that…” Martin trails off. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

No one had ever really known what was going on with Lewis and Adrian. They seemed to alternate between being practically joined at the hip with having public shouting matches, the latter of which were usually preceded by drunken fumbles that would be vehemently denied to anyone who _dared_ to ask. Jenson was of the opinion that things would be a lot easier if they just admitted it (or rather, if _Lewis_ admitted it) and they just got together properly. It would save everyone a lot of grief. But Lewis had never listened, apparently in complete denial about the whole thing, and then Adrian had left town, and since then the shouting had got worse, except that these days it was down a phone line.

“I’m sure Mikey would be more than happy to cover if you think Lewis needs a day off,” Jenson suggests.

“And what will he do on said day off? Get in more trouble?” Jenson attempts to defend his colleague, but Martin interrupts with a tired-looking wave of his hand. “I know, I know, he just needs to get his headspace sorted. It’s probably a good idea to be honest.”

“I’ll find out when Nico’s around, make sure he’s looked after,” Jenson answers, and Martin admits that that’s a remarkably sensible idea.

“What would we do without you?” Martin sighs.

The phone rings in the office beyond, and Martin excuses himself.

The moment the door shuts behind Martin, Jenson pulls out the éclair he had hurriedly hidden behind the stack of pans.

“Now where were we, my lovely?” he croons, and takes a huge bite.


	25. Chapter 25

Rob’s alarm buzzes into life on the bedside table, the screen flashing brightly in the darkness of the room.

“Ngh. ‘Lipe, time t’wake up.”

The reply is a barely audible mumble that still manages to convey disgust at the very concept of being awake this early.

Rob reaches out blindly for his phone, hitting random buttons until the alarm silences. It’s far earlier than they really need to be awake, but Felipe never takes into account their ability to get, _distracted_ in the mornings, and they’d be late for everything if they relied on _his_ alarm.

“‘Lipe…”

Felipe snuggles determinedly closer to Rob, entangling himself with Rob’s limbs and clinging on hard enough to almost stop Rob moving entirely, let alone get up.

“Nghlph. Hmmf.”

Rob wraps his arms around Felipe and kisses the top of his head, enjoying one of the rare moments of quiet that he can get with his boyfriend. Usually it’s a whirlwind, Felipe always bouncing and excited, or ranting about work, or swinging from mood to mood, and even though things at the café had settled down significantly, for Rob it can still be _knackering._ Not that he’d swap it for the world though.

But in the darkness and the quiet of the early morning, Rob can just lie there, feeling the warmth of Felipe’s body against his, stroking his hair, ignoring the world’s very existence, and just _being._

“Love you, gorgeous,” Rob mutters, and Felipe momentarily tightens his grip around Rob’s waist.

“Nnnlvuhtuh.”

Rob smiles to himself. They’ve got ten minutes, give or take, until the snooze goes off again, and he’s going to enjoy every peaceful second of it, warm and comfy under the covers. It really is perfect.

Completely perfect.

Rob doesn’t know why then of all moments, but he finds a thought crystallising in his head, and it starts trying to force its way past his lips without his permission, like it knows it’s too important to keep in.

“Are you awake, Felipe?” Felipe shakes his head against Rob’s chest. Rob shifts around until he’s face to face with the other man as best he can whilst they’re still tangled together. “Seriously, I want to ask you something and I don’t want you going straight back to sleep and forgetting.”

Felipe drags one eye open and looks up at Rob, not appearing hugely impressed. “It is practically the middle of the night, Rob. It can wait, no?”

“No, it can’t.” Rob doesn’t know why it can’t, but… “And no it isn’t,” he adds, mostly to himself.

Felipe opens his other eye, frowning, and letting go enough to face Rob properly, his voice worried. “What is it?”

Of course _now_ words desert him… _Deep breath_. “I want you to move in with me. Properly. I mean, you practically live here already, so…” Rob shrugs, a shift of duvet in the gloom, staring intently at Felipe’s chest and completely avoiding his eyes. “Maybe we could get somewhere that’s bigger, too? Somewhere that’s, y’know, _ours_ …” Felipe doesn’t say anything, and Rob looks up, his hopeful smile fading. “If not, that’s… that’s ok…”

Before he can say anything more Felipe is kissing him, a soft but insistent press of lips and a hand at the nape of his neck, making sure he’s not going anywhere. Not that he’d ever want to.

“Shut up,” Felipe whispers, his grin audible, lips still only a breath away from Rob’s, eyes still soft from sleep and somehow shining in the dim glow of the morning light. “You have all the best ideas, for sure.”

Rob laughs softly, the tightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt arrive melting away completely. “If you say so, then yeah, I guess I do, sunshine.”

*

When the alarm goes off again Felipe hits the snooze and throws it across the room without even breaking their kiss.

When it goes off _again_ , they’re far too busy to pay any attention to its forlorn buzzing from the far corner of the bedroom. And for once, Rob doesn’t care in the slightest that they’re both going to be late for work.


	26. Chapter 26

Sebastian doesn’t think about the “Jenson Issue”, as he’s started referring to it, for a good few weeks after Tommi leaves, his time taken up instead with missing his now-ex-boyfriend and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. He can’t really say that he’s lonely – all of his other friends are still around, the football league is underway, and the bar is still busy (even more so now they’re one short) – but he keeps to himself more than he’s done before. The people who know him are split between wondering if he’s having a bit of a reality check, or if he’s being as childish as some people say he is, and simply sulking. In reality though, it’s probably a bit of both.

He wonders for a while if it’s just guilt that keeps him thinking about Tommi, about those quiet moments when it was just the two of them, lazing in the sun on the beach, sneaking off to the backrooms, staying over at each other’s flats… and whether if he stopped trying to think about him, he’d stop missing him entirely.

And then he considers if he should hate him (or dislike him at the very least) for leaving so abruptly. But even ten minutes of trying that fails miserably, so that plan goes out the window.

Then it’s been a couple of weeks, and it’s halfway through the day when Sebastian realises that actually, he’s ok now.

And that’s that.

So, now it’s about time to consider the Jenson Issue. Because, let’s face it, Sebastian thinks, lying on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, it really is an issue now. He thinks through, in a remarkably ordered fashion, what to consider. Firstly, Jenson is still with Nico. And there’s been no sign of trouble in paradise, at least not that he’s heard. His heart sinks, and in a fit of self-pity considers giving up and asking Heikki from the bar out – he seems interested, another blond, sporty Finn, and… _No, Seb, stop it._ Ok, so ignoring the Nico Problem for a moment, that just leaves Jenson himself.

There’s really only one way to go about this, he realises. Either Jenson knows how he feels already, or he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, then he needs to know. And if he does, then, well, Seb needs to know that. And if he gets shot down, then maybe it’s time to move on. (Somehow. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it though.) But he won’t know if he doesn’t try.

Now he just has to find the right moment…


	27. Chapter 27

It’s that quiet time just after lunch in the MTCanteen, when the only customers still around are those lingering on after leisurely lunches to savour the relative peace. Martin is working on some paperwork at the counter, Lewis is clearing plates, and Jenson is busy restocking the pastry cabinet. Or rather, he’s _attempting_ to restock the pastry cabinet, and is busy trying to resist the urge to eat every second cake… In his defence, they _are_ award winning cakes – éclairs and profiteroles with the fluffiest of cream fillings, cupcakes with mountains of icing, flaky croissants and pains au chocolats, Danishes that practically shimmer through their glazing, rich and sticky brownies… _Oh shit_ , he’s just eaten another one, hasn’t he? Jenson glances around furtively to check that Martin didn’t see, and hastily licks the crumbs from his fingers.

“Why good afternoon there stranger,” comes a voice with a familiar accent, and Jenson’s eyes snap up.

“David!” he exclaims, and is round the counter in an instant to pull David into a back slapping hug. “Back in town and you didn’t even call? I should be offended!”

“Good to see you too, Jens… It’s certainly been a while.”

Jenson makes a quick wave at Martin to let him know that he’s taking a break, and then joins David at one of the tables.

“How’s life on the cruise liners treating you?” Jenson asks as they slip into their seats. “What are you now, event management?”

“That’s me, yep,” David replies. “And it’s great. I was long past being a barman, and this suits me just fine. Plus the Red Bull seems to be doing plenty well enough without me. And as for you, well you seem quite happy.“ Then David frowns slightly. "You’ve got, er,” and he gestures at Jenson’s cheek. Jenson looks momentarily confused, and then laughs, rubbing the smear of icing from the corner of his mouth with a grin.

“Very happy indeed, my friend. So what brings you back to these parts?”

“Work, actually,” David answers. “We’re launching a new event, and I thought you might want to come along,” and he hands Jenson a black and yellow flyer.

**BBCruises  
** in partnership with  
 **Red Bull** and **Toro Rosso club nights  
** presents

**_The Forum  
_** A unique and exclusive invitation only event.

Find us on the _Red Button  
_ Friday 8pm, Pier One, Fia

_“What happens on the Red Button  
_ **_stays_ ** _on the Red Button”_

“Aww, David, you shouldn’t have!” Jenson laughs, and gives David a friendly punch on the shoulder.

“What?”

“I knew you missed me, but you didn’t have to name the boat after me!” and he grins winsomely.

“Oh shut up, you,” David answers, laughing. “I’ll have you know I had nothing to do with the naming process. Your ego has got out of control since I left. Too much time with Nico I think.”

“The jealous ex isn’t a good look on you, David,” Jenson winks.

David rolls his eyes. “Carry on like that and I’ll take your name off the guest list.”

Jenson feigns horror. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would.”

“Jenson!” comes a call from the counter, and Martin is waving at him. “Customer…”

“See you Friday then?” David asks, sliding out of his seat.

“See you there.”

“Oh, and Jenson? You can bring Nico too.”

Jenson laughs. “I still say you’re jealous,” he winks, and David huffs a not-exasperated-really laugh, before letting himself out of the canteen.


	28. Chapter 28

“Jenson! Glad you could make it.” David gives him a backslapping hug as they meet on the quay. “No Nico?”

“Mr Coulthard himself, good evening. And I’m afraid not, he couldn’t get the time off, Silver Arrows has been stupidly busy recently. I blame the mention it got in that Chinese guidebook…” Together they walk up the gangplank and onto the sleek and sizeable yacht that’s moored beside them. “So is this your new office then?” he asks.

David laughs. “Pretty much, and as workplaces go, this one certainly isn’t bad. I welcome you aboard BBCruises’ newest and most exclusive vessel – the _Red Button_.”

“Not bad at all!” Jenson agrees, looking around admiringly.

They reach the end of the vast deck, in the middle of which is a swimming pool, and by the doors through to the cabins the boys from Red Bull are setting up, Christian overseeing as Mark and Sebastian stock the bar, and Jaime finishing up plugging in all the cables for his sound system.

“You’re among the select group of early birds at the moment,” David mentions. “No one’s really meant to be here yet, but you know what people are like.”

A small group of glamorous looking people, some of which Jenson knows, some of which he doesn’t, are gathered by the railings, sipping champagne and enjoying the view of the sunset over the ocean, and they stroll over to join them.

“You know Eddie, don’t you?” David asks.

The Irishman and ex-pub-landlord is already shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Jenson, my boy, how are you?”

“EJ, of course I do. Still not growing old gracefully then?” Jenson grins.

“Enough of that already, you. And I’ll have you know that gracefulness is entirely overrated.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you. Cheers.” Jenson clinks the glass of champagne that David has just pressed into his hand against Eddie’s, and then glances around. “No Martin?” he asks David.

“Er, no,” David confesses. “He’s working for the competition these days.”

“Ooh… Awkward?”

“No, not really. We don’t see much of him anymore, and it’s not as big a deal as everyone seems to think.”

Jenson shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“Anyway, we’ve got Jaime part-timing as our rep in the travel agents in town now too.”

“News to me.”

“Oh, and have you met Jake Humphrey?”

“Jake? No, I don’t think so…”

David calls over the tall, pink-shirted man who was chatting with Jaime by the stereo system, and introduces them officially.

“Lovely to meet you,” Jake says, smiling a slightly shy but wonderfully warm smile.

“Nice to meet you too.” They shake hands, but Jenson gives him a wide-eyed, faux-innocent look that says _Really? Just that?_ and pulls him into a proper man-hug, whilst David laughs at Jake’s surprised expression.

“I did warn you about him,” David says to Jake.

“You did?” Jenson replies, feigning offence. “Should I be worried? David, what have you been saying?”

“He’s told me all about you,” Jake replies.

“All? Oh, I doubt that,” Jenson answers, with a wink and an expression that makes Jake go as pink as his shirt.

“Definitely warned you,” David mutters, shaking his head.

“Don’t believe a word of it. I deny everything!”

David’s mobile starts to ring in his pocket, and he excuses himself with a wave.

“So Jake,” Jenson leans up against the railing and smiles charmingly, “since you both work together now, you must have _plenty_ of embarrassing stories about David… I want to know them _all_ …”

*

As darkness falls the yacht fills with people, and the night gets properly underway, the chatter loud and the music louder, people dancing in the brightly coloured lights that spill off the deck and sparkle on the waves in the harbour. At the bar Sebastian and Mark show off their most spectacular tricks to the admiring noises and rounds of applause from the captive audience, champagne flowing down pyramids of balanced glasses, drinks created that flame with burning spirits or glow with luminous mixers, and joint acrobatic efforts of flying shakers and glasses that have the onlookers gasping in delight.

Then, some time after midnight, the bar closes, replaced instead with case after case of champagne that Sebastian and Mark have placed in troughs of ice, and Jaime switches off his decks, leaving a playlist running to see them through the rest of the night. From then on in, the atmosphere shifts from VIP club to private party, and things start to loosen up more than a touch…

Earlier on in the night Jenson had wondered what the point of having a swimming pool on a boat was, especially in the crystal clear and warm seas around Fia. But by now they’ve all had so much champagne that silly questions like that are entirely secondary to a _far_ more important question – that being how fast the Red Bull boys can get as many people as possible into the aforementioned swimming pool.

Mark is first to go, setting the tone with a backflip that he knows no one will be able to outdo, and a massive splash that has the gaggle of girls in high heels and short skirts squealing and attempting to hide behind each other. Whilst the water is still churning Sebastian gives Christian an unexpected shove, but the boss won’t go down alone, and drags Sebastian in with him, thus salvaging at least _some_ of his dignity. Then Sebastian and Mark haul themselves out of the water and are after Jake, catching him off balance after a short chase around the pool, and he falls with a comic flailing of arms and a huge splash. Next they hurl Eddie in, who loses his glasses and curses the little upstarts with no respect for their elders who did this, and then Jenson joins the effort to get David in too, who wails about his trousers and about it being _his bloody event_ , clinging to the railings for dear life, but the trio are too strong for him and all four of them tumble in together. Jaime is not to be left out, leaving his customary place near the stereo system to strip off his shirt and bomb into the middle of the melee, and that’s the tipping point – within moments everyone else joins in too, even some of the girls kicking off their heels and struggling out of their dresses to jump in in bras and knickers alone, shrieking and giggling like the soundtrack to a high school movie.

*

“So what _did_ David tell you about me?” Jenson asks Jake, the two of them sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling their legs in the water and splashing anyone who gets too close (Sebastian in particular, as it happens), and polishing off what might just be their second bottle of champagne. Jake has (pointlessly) rolled his sodden trousers up to his knees, and Jenson’s shirt is soaked through and unbuttoned more than halfway down, but the night is sultry and they’re warm from the champagne as well.

“Many things,” he answers, with the very slightest of tipsy slurs to his words.

“My kingdom for a direct answer!” Jenson declares, throwing his arms wide theatrically, and Jake giggles.

“Well if you insist… Just don’t shoot the messenger!”

“Is it really that bad?”

Jake shrugs. “Depends what you think bad is… He _definitely_ warned me you were a consummate flirt, but I think I could have figured that out myself…”

Jenson laughs, and gently elbows Jake in the ribs. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet…” Jake admits, looking a tad pinker than just the champagne and the warmth of the night would explain. “And that you have a distinct lack of respect for personal space…” he continues.

“Aww, it was just a hug!” Jenson smiles that charming smile again.

“David said I’d be lucky if you didn’t kiss me straight off!”

“You sound disappointed.” Jenson’s audible wink is back.

Jake giggles again, and tips his head to one side. “Well he did say it would be an experience…”

“What? Just a couple of friendly pecks on the cheek? You’re easily pleased…”

“A couple? That’s very European.”

“Well I think the Europeans have it right there – take the first opportunity and all that…”

Jenson doesn’t finish his sentence, tailing off as Jake spontaneously leans in and presses the shortest of almost-lingering kisses to Jenson’s cheek, before pulling back and looking down, blushing.

“I thought I, er, should _take the opportunity_?” he suggests.

There’s a split second pause before Jenson replies. “Y’know, I don’t think the Europeans have that one _quite_ right, actually.”

Jake looks up to see Jenson smiling, not exactly shyly, but gently, and Jake can’t tear his eyes away. “No?” he asks, uncertainly.

“No, I think when it comes to kissing, we English have it down much better. None of this faffing around with pecks on cheeks…”

Jake’s eyes flick up and Jenson leans in, putting his drink down and moving his hand to the back of Jake’s neck, and pressing a soft and undemanding kiss to his lips.

“I think we do, yeah,” Jake answers when they break apart.

“So I take it that lived up to expectations then?” Jenson asks, his eyes laughing.

Jake wrinkles his nose and smiles cheekily. “Hmm, let me check…” and he leans back in again.


	29. Chapter 29

Sebastian is by himself in the corner of the pool, chest deep in the warm water, drinking champagne straight out of the bottle and watching the party. All attempts to get close to Jens had been foiled by David’s blasted colleague and friend, who at this moment was alternating giggling and blushing like a schoolgirl with _kissing Jenson_. And Seb was almost _painfully_ jealous. Nico was one thing, but someone he’d only just met? He considers telling Nico, but knowing his luck, it would probably backfire. And it isn’t any of his business, not really. Sadly.

A face full of water and Jaime’s infectious laugh yank him out of his thoughts.

“Cheer up Seb, it’s a party!”

Seb shrugs, swigging from the bottle again, and Jaime swims over to lean against the pool edge with him. Then Jaime glances to the other end of the pool to where Jenson and Jake are sat, eyes only for each other, and where Seb is determinedly no longer looking. “Ah,” is all he says.

Seb looks round, surprised. “What?” he replies, a little too defensively.

“That,” Jaime replies, cocking his head in the direction of the two men and looking knowingly at Seb, who groans.

“Is it really that obvious?”

“What, that you are hopelessly lovestruck for a certain Englishman?” Seb lets his head fall back against the poolside with a defeated _thunk_. “I would say so, yes.”

“Do you think he knows?”

Jaime thinks for a second. “Actually, I am not sure…”

“I don’t know what to do,” Seb admits dejectedly a moment later, and swigs the champagne again.

“I can’t help you there,” Jaime answers, stealing the champagne bottle. “Except maybe to help you get very, _very_ drunk,” and he hands the bottle back to Seb.

Seb huffs, and smiles weakly. “Sounds like a plan…”

*

The cabin door slams against the wall as the two men fall against it, still dripping from the pool and stumbling from far too much champagne.

“Whose room do you think this is?” Seb tries to whisper as Jaime shoves him up against the wall.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Jaime grins wolfishly, and kisses Seb thoroughly, until he’s groaning against his mouth and trying to push himself away from the wall.

“Shut the door!” he eventually pants, and the moment Jaime has stepped away to push it closed and slide the lock across, Seb tackles him towards the bed, and they fall onto the mattress together. He sprawls on top of Jaime, kissing hungrily down his neck and throat, and trying to hold his wrists above him.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jaime says, and pulls his arms away, swinging Sebastian down onto the bed beside him and claiming his mouth again. The smart satin sheets beneath them are already getting damp and probably ruined with the mixture of the chlorinated water and their sweat, and Seb drunkenly mentions that they’re going to be in trouble for that.

“You love trouble,” Jaime answers, with a glint in his eye.

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” Seb answers with an impish grin, and Jaime returns the expression, before biting down on Seb’s neck and making him yelp.

“Sh-sh-shhh!” Jaime giggles.

“Make me,” Seb replies, so Jaime kisses him, hard, Seb grabbing the back of Jaime’s hair to keep their lips crushed together, plundering each other’s champagne-sweet mouths with their tongues, hands running down each other’s backs and waists, and entangling their legs together to grind their hips and hardening cocks together, both of them moaning shamelessly.

Almost simultaneously they both start to scrabble with buttons and belts and pull down soaked trousers and pants, tugging them off sticky limbs, and then rolling back together again into a tangle, desperate to touch and kiss every inch of exposed flesh, as they explore each other for the first time in a long while. Seb whimpers when Jaime twists at his nipple with a free hand, groaning when he teasingly licks the hard nub, and yelps when the tongue is replaced by sharp teeth and a mischievous giggle. Then Seb pulls him up again, and pinches his arse, hard, and it’s Jaime’s turn to deny that that noise was a squeak.

There’s a brief tussle for dominance, in which the sheets untuck and screw up around them and pillows are knocked onto the floor, until it’s Jaime who comes out on top, literally, straddling Seb’s waist and pinning him, bright eyes flashing and still grinning wickedly.

“I win,” he purrs. “Do I get to claim my prize now?”

“I’m no one’s prize,” Seb answers, trying to sound more threatening than he feels when he’s completely incapable of moving.

“Oh,” Jaime says, looking disappointed, but his eyes still sparkle. “I suppose I should go then…” and he starts to let go.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Seb sits up and throws his arms around Jaime’s neck, kissing him ferociously and pulling him back down on top of him, Jaime laughing into the kiss.

“Ok then,” he replies, putting his hand on Seb’s chest to lever himself upright again, and starting to lick his own fingers, slowly and deliberately, almost putting on a show with his tongue, and slowly stroking himself with his other hand. Seb’s hand drops to his own cock as he watches, but he only has time for a couple of frantic strokes before Jaime has pushed his hand away and slid his own fingers into the cleft between Sebastian’s buttocks, rubbing up against his entrance. Seb whines and wriggles down to push himself against Jaime’s fingers, who chuckles, pulling them away, and Seb makes a disappointed noise.

“Impatient?” Jaime whispers against Seb’s ear.

“Always!” Seb replies, before dissolving into a gasp as Jaime slowly slips his finger in.

Seb’s breath hitches when Jaime slides a second finger in, easing in and out slowly, just grazing over his sweet spot, a little more each time, until his breathing is ragged and he’s arching up off the bed. Jaime scoots down to lick the bead of pre-come off Seb’s cock, and Seb gasps out a desperate whimper, which gets even higher when Jaime pushes a third finger in without any further warning. He keeps stretching Seb open, until he seems satisfied, and withdraws his fingers, Seb hissing at the loss.

Then,

“Shit.”

“What?” Seb asks, looking concerned.

“Do you have…?”

_Ah_. “No… Do you?”

Jaime shakes his head, and then dives off to rummage into the drawers of the bedside table, shortly coming up grinning victoriously.

“Whoever’s room this is, they came prepared,” he declares gleefully, dipping his fingers into the tub of Vaseline, and quickly slicking up his erection. “Where…” Jaime starts, but Seb interrupts him.

“Where I am,” he says, his voice husky, “I want to watch you.”

Jaime makes a low noise that’s almost a growl and his eyes glitter, and he scrambles back on top of Seb and leans down to claim his mouth again, then kissing down his neck and chest as he lines himself up.

They’ve given up on keeping quiet when Jaime pushes himself in past the tight ring of muscle, and keeps pushing, gasping and moaning in concert as Seb lifts his hips to take as much of Jaime as he can. They hold for a moment when Jaime is as deep as he can go, buried completely inside him, both of them panting and trembling, eyes locked, Jaime’s dark, Seb’s wide.

“What are you waiting for?” Seb challenges, his voice strained and unsteady, and Jaime grins, pulling out and almost slamming back in for a single, almost vicious thrust that makes Seb cry out, throwing his head back against the mattress.

“Was that what you were after?” he teases, and Seb can only nod and scrabble for purchase on Jaime’s sweat-slick back, as Jaime starts up a rhythm that hits just perfectly inside him with every thrust, until they’re both pleading and swearing in their own languages.

“Touch yourself,” Jaime pants, “please…”

Seb doesn’t need to be told twice, wrapping his hand around his cock and jerking himself off as best he can in time with Jaime’s increasingly erratic movements, the feeling building in the pit of his stomach and up his spine until the world goes white and he comes, hard, spilling across both their chests and stomachs and crying out unintelligible noises. Jaime follows scarcely seconds later as Seb spasms tightly around him, his fingernails clawing into Seb’s skin with a string of groaning Spanish curses, and collapsing down onto his chest as they ride out the tail of their orgasms.

*

“Oh god,” Seb pants, sprawled on his back on the sheets and trying to cool down. “Why has it been so long since we did that?”

“Because _someone_ always seems to have a boyfriend…” Jaime answers, rolling over to trail his fingers down Seb’s chest.

“That was stupid of me,” Seb laughs breathily, shifting to match Jaime’s position and kissing him languidly.

“I suppose we ought to head back up now,” he adds, when they break apart.

Jaime just hums dismissively. “Eventually. You don’t want to move yet, do you? I don’t, for sure.”

“No, not really,” Seb replies, and stretches out lazily on the damp sheets.

“Good,” Jaime sighs, slumping down again onto his back. “They won’t notice we’ve gone for a bit longer yet…”

*

Jaime and Seb eventually sneak back up onto deck, and it doesn’t seem that anyone even realised that they’d left.

That is, until David appears behind them, taps Seb on the shoulder, and whispers into his ear that they owe him for new sheets.

Jaime thinks that Seb’s expressions, both at David’s comment and at Jaime’s own unrestrained giggling, are entirely worth having to pay for the sheets himself.


	30. Chapter 30

**_New text message (1) received:_ **

_From: Nico Rosberg_

_Hey there. Missed you at the match the other day, everything ok? Nico_

From: Nelsinho Piquet

Hey yourself. Yeah, sorry about that. Been a bit busy for football recently.

_Oh? Are you trying to be cryptic, or are you waiting for me to ask? :P_

:P Neither I’m afraid. Just work. Nothing special.

_Ah ok. Could’ve warned me though. It being practically the only time I see you these days._

I said sorry :P How did it go anyway?

_The usual. Seb was being insufferable and Jens was being oblivious. Again._

Really? I don’t understand how Jenson doesn’t realise how obsessed Sebastian is... But I meant the football :P

_Oh, we won, of course ;) And I dunno, but either he’s an absolute bastard, or he’s completely clueless. And you can’t blame me for preferring to believe the latter :P_

True, but if it’s as bad as you say then Sebastian really needs to lay off. Have you considered punching him in the face? ;)

_Many times..._

Maybe you should try it sometime then...

_Yeah, maybe I should! Anyway, good to know you’re still alive :P I need to sleep now – you’re not the only busy one. Talk soon?_

Sure. Goodnight, and don’t miss me too much ;)

_Fuck off Nels :P_


	31. Chapter 31

“Do you think we should invite Fernando?” Rob chews on the end of the pen for a moment, looking at their now-joint address book ( _It’s the little things,_ he thinks).

“I don’t know… Do you think he would invite us?”

“I’m not sure… maybe we should be the magnanimous ones and invite him anyway.”

Felipe cocks his head to one side and smiles. “I suppose. The worst he can do is say no, for sure.”

There’s a moment’s pause, then,

“What about Ross?”

Felipe scoffs. “It is a housewarming, Rob, not a wedding. Ross was my boss, and I do not think he is, how do you say, _house party material_?”

Rob can’t help but laugh at the mental image of the middle-aged maître d doing shots alongside Felipe, Kimi, and himself at their new kitchen table. “So no, not Ross then…”


	32. Chapter 32

Bruno was right – he really doesn’t take up much space in the bed. But that’s because he seems to insist on sleeping practically on _top_ of Vitaly. Almost every night Vitaly will fall asleep with a comfortable space between them, and almost every time he’ll wake up with Bruno’s head on his chest, or tucked into the crook of his neck, or with an arm around his waist, or with him snuggled right up behind him, or with their legs tangled together, or…

He can’t sleep like that – he’s not used to it – but he’s given up trying to push Bruno away, no matter what time of night or morning he wakes up. He’s perfectly content just to lie there and enjoy the warmth of Bruno’s body against his for as long as he can, even if Heikki does sometimes have to poke him awake later in the day, when they’re trying to get some work done at their table in the window of Marussia.

*

After a few weeks, Bruno finds that when he wakes up in the morning not only does Vitaly look like he’s actually _slept_ , but more often than not Vitaly is now cuddled up behind him, fast asleep, and with his arm wrapped around Bruno’s waist like a vice. He’d snap a photo on his phone to prove a point, but he hasn’t got a hope in hell of reaching it like this. Or the inclination to, when he’s being held so close. Instead, he just links their fingers and snuggles back against him, wondering if he has the same content little smile when he’s asleep as Vitaly does.


	33. Chapter 33

Fernando’s apartment is tucked away in the steeply sloping backstreets on the outskirts of the town, where the narrow roads are cobbled and the alleyways are cool. _Very him_ , Mark thinks, as he presses the buzzer, beer bottles clinking conspicuously in his shoulder bag.

“Hola?” comes the tinny voice through the speaker.

“Who do you think it is, mate?”

Mark doesn’t get a proper reply, just a laugh, and then the buzzing sound that tells him that the front door is open.

He takes the stone stairs in the echoey stairwell two at a time, but Fernando still manages to open his door before Mark’s knuckles can connect with the wood, smiling almost smugly at Mark’s momentary surprise.

“Welcome in,” he says, and lets Mark into the front room with a flourish.

It’s not a big apartment, but it’s got more character than Mark’s own, and an almost Italian feel – high ceilings, a collection of not entirely matching, almost bohemian furniture, a set of French doors which lead to a tiny balcony and surrounded with hilariously billowy curtains, and with a view over the uneven tiled rooftops and down toward the bay. _Definitely very Fernando,_ Mark thinks.

“I suppose you will want to put those,” Fernando gestures at the clinking bag, “into the fridge?”

“Yeah, sure, thanks. Where is it?”

Fernando beckons, and Mark follows him through into the kitchen, where there’s a table laid by another open French door, and lets Fernando take the beers off him.

“Actually, I’ll keep one,” Mark adds, and Fernando shakes his head almost sadly.

“At least I am not wasting the wine on you then,” he teases.

“Nah, don’t need to worry there,” Mark replies, popping the cap off his bottle and swigging it. “So what are you treating me to for dinner then?” He takes a seat at the kitchen table, leaning back comfortably as Fernando uncorks his wine with a _thonk_ and pours himself a generous glass. “It certainly smells alright.”

Fernando’s smile turns more self-conscious than Mark’s used to seeing. “Nothing special, just a pasta dish.”

“I thought you said you could cook?” Mark’s tone isn’t entirely serious, and Fernando knows that casual insults and backhanded compliments are just Mark’s style, their conversations flicking back and forth as they always have done.

“I said I can cook better than you,” he replies, with a slight smile.

“You don’t know about my cooking. Anyway, isn’t pasta Italian?”

“So you do all your cooking on the _Barbie_?” and the eyebrows go up.

Mark has to concede that point. “I’ll postpone judgement until I taste it then,” and he swigs his beer, whilst it’s Fernando’s turn to shake his head and smile, turning back to the stove to finish off and serve up.

*

Despite the jibes, Fernando’s cooking is perfectly decent. It certainly goes well enough with the beer, and Mark refuses to admit that the wine goes better, even when goaded into trying it.

“Not in the slightest, mate, look, you try this…”

Fernando’s grimace at the combination of tastes is an absolute picture, as is his glare at how hard Mark laughs.

They talk, about how nauseating both Felipe and Rob and Jenson and Nico are around each other, about how inseparable Martin, Stefano, and Christian are in their free time, Mark about (some of) the madness of the Forum the other night, Fernando about Sporting Fia’s upcoming match against arch-rivals Atletico Indy, about all the things they used to chat about in the front window of Café Ferrari. But Fernando doesn’t have to rush off to deal with other customers, and Mark finds he’s even more comfortable at this slightly rickety kitchen table than he is in the familiar and worn leather armchairs of the café.

*

After dinner they end up on the balcony, which is barely large enough for them to actually sit on the tiny metal chairs, that match the wrought iron railings so well that Mark suspects that they grew out of the balcony itself somehow… Fernando leans back on his, looking far too comfortable, nearly-empty wine glass dangling from a relaxed hand, and in the twilight they can hear the slightest echo of their own laughter off the buildings in the quiet backstreet they overlook.

Mark finishes the dregs of his beer, and thumbs towards the inside of the apartment. “I’m getting another one, want a top up?” Fernando thinks for a moment, contemplating his glass as if it holds the answer, as Mark gets to his feet. “Yes or no mate, it isn’t that hard a question.”

Fernando mock-glares, but it comes out more as a smirk as he tries to keep the smile off his face. The overall expression does funny things to Mark’s stomach.

“Why not,” he eventually replies, and stands to follow Mark back inside.

The flat is darker than expected, compared even to the fading light of outside, and the fridge light is comparatively blinding. It takes a moment after closing it for Mark’s eyes to readjust before he can think about opening his new bottle.

It seems that Fernando is having the same thought, because he’s just leaning against the counter, watching Mark, wineglass abandoned beside him.

“I would ask if you’re enjoying the view,” Mark quips, “but it’s a bit dark in here. Do you even _have_ a lightswitch in this place?”

Fernando just smiles, the half-light playing over his features and long, dark hair, and giving him an almost unearthly quality, like a painting in a darkened church.

“I could see just fine. And yes, I was. Am.” He steps forward until he’s almost touching Mark, almost, but not quite, voice dropping slightly. “I suppose, as this _is_ our third date…”

“Second,” Mark blurts out, before he can stop himself. “Technically.”

Fernando looks up at him, mild disapproval keeping that half smirk on his face. “You might regret correcting me if you knew what I was about to say.”

“I think I can guess,” Mark’s voice is uneven, using all of his remaining brain power to keep his words under his control this time, “and I don’t think you would have started saying it if you weren’t prepared to go through with it, whatever the precise number.”

Fernando smiles, eyes dark with obvious intentions as he looks up at Mark. “Maybe you know me too well.”

Mark shakes his head. “There’s still plenty more I’d like to know better.”

“Maybe we should start now then?”

“Maybe?”

“Definitely.”

It’s Fernando who closes the remaining gap between them, his arms slipping around Mark’s waist, but it’s Mark who takes control, turning to push Fernando back against the counter, one hand on the cool granite, the other wrapped possessively around his back to keep their bodies pressed together. For a moment time waits, nothing but the sounds of their breathing in the darkened room.

Only then do their lips meet for the first time, the tastes of red wine and beer mingling on their tongues, as tentative fingers creep up the backs of shirts, eventually coming to rest tucked into waistbands and back pockets, or clutching at shirts as the kiss becomes hungrier, neither of them used to being anything other than completely in control, and they both take everything they want from each other. Fernando finds himself pinned to the counter, Mark using every inch of his height advantage, with one hand moving to knot itself in Fernando’s hair, tilting his head to an angle that allows Mark to attack his mouth with even greater ferocity.

They push themselves even closer together until Mark’s thigh slips between Fernando’s, who bucks his hips forward at the contact and groans into Mark’s mouth. The kiss breaks into messy kisses, travelling across jaws to nip on earlobes and trail wetly down necks and collarbones, as Fernando almost ruts against him, hands moving to his arse to pull him even closer. Mark moans deep in his throat as their hips grind together, before pulling back to look down at Fernando, his gaze flicking between kiss-swollen, parted lips and dark eyes.

“I think this is getting a bit heated for the kitchen,” Mark says, well aware that his heart is thumping in his chest and his breathing is decidedly less than even.

“Are you asking to take me to bed?” Fernando replies, and whilst the words are teasing, his voice is too rough to make any even implied threat to refuse believable.

“Oh I’m not asking, I’m _demanding_ ,” Mark answers.

Fernando’s face breaks slowly into an almost voracious smile, and he clashes their mouths together again, at the same time manoeuvring Mark to follow after him.

Mark couldn’t tell you where in the flat the bedroom was, or quite how they managed to lose a good deal of their clothing before getting there, apparently without even breaking their increasingly wild kiss, until Fernando is sprawled out on his bed covers under Mark, raking his nails down Mark’s back as he bites and sucks down Fernando’s chest, arching up and gasping out loud when Mark’s tongue swirls at his overly-sensitive nipples, and then squirming as he teases light kisses down the side of his neck. Then Fernando grabs hold of Mark’s hair, pulling his mouth off and dragging him back up for another breath-stealing kiss, before taking Mark’s hand and placing it firmly on the bulge in his trousers, and groaning again when Mark smirks into the kiss and squeezes his hand.

“I want you to fuck me,” Fernando breathes, the words warm against Mark’s lips, before Mark lifts himself up slightly to look down at him.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and though Fernando doesn’t look like he’s unsure at all, Mark certainly wouldn’t admit even to himself that he might be in any way projecting his own nervousness.

“No, I say it just to tease,” Fernando replies, scowling as best he can through heavy breathing and when so obviously turned on.

Mark twists a dark smile. “I was just checking there wasn’t some third date etiquette I needed to be aware of,” he jokes, but he doesn’t give Fernando a chance to reply before he’s making short work of Fernando’s shorts, tugging them down over his thighs and off along with his boxers, whilst Fernando quickly loses patience with the buttons on Mark’s shirt, tearing the last few open, and they fly off to be lost between uneven floorboards.

“Oi,” Mark growls, giving the now-naked Fernando a small shove onto his back again and leaning down over him. “That was a decent shirt.”

“Were you dressing to impress me then?”

“Are you saying it didn’t work?”

“I’m saying you look better without it,” he smiles devilishly. Then he reaches up and splays his fingers across Mark’s chest, before trailing them down his stomach, watching tense muscles jump under his touch, finally moving first to cup and then stroke Mark’s cock through the thin cotton of his boxers, the only barrier left between them. Mark’s head drops and his breathing hitches at Fernando’s firm touch.

“So are you _going_ to fuck me then?” Fernando breathes.

Mark lifts his head again to look him straight in the eye, and it’s his turn to smirk. “With pleasure…”

Mark shifts off as Fernando moves to fumble at the nightstand, and then they’re kissing again, lying on their sides and unable to keep their hands or mouths off each other, making it far more difficult than it should be for Mark to take the lid off the bottle that Fernando just pressed into his hand and spread the lube onto his fingers. He wastes no time in finding Fernando’s entrance, feeling the muscles twitch as he circles around it, before pushing a finger inside, and Fernando bucks forward, the combination of the damp friction between them and the intrusion making him gasp. With a second finger Mark starts to stretch him open, impatient but careful, Fernando’s breathing ragged and hot against his ear as Mark searches for that place inside him.

“ _Ah-h_ ,” Fernando gasps, clutching at Mark as he tries to both rut forwards and push back simultaneously, the gasp dissolving into broken moans as Mark continues to rub at the spot, the shameless noises making Mark feel heavy with lust, his imagination in overdrive as to the sounds Fernando might make when it was more than just his fingers inside him.

When Mark adds the third finger Fernando pushes back against him slowly, his breath stuttering as his body takes them, and starts to fuck himself in time with Mark’s movements. At the same time he works his hand between their bodies to curl his fingers around the base of Mark’s cock, who makes a choked noise as Fernando runs his thumb up the underside to then smear the precome over the tip.

It’s about then that all restraint fails Mark, and he pushes Fernando onto his back again and hooks his legs up into the air in one movement, pausing for only the hint of a second to check the expression on Fernando’s face before lining himself up and entering him in one, the tight heat gripping around his cock making him grunt loudly as Fernando cries out, pulling roughly on Mark’s hair to drag him closer, deeper, more, words and noises in Spanish and English merging together and making Mark’s head spin. Mark doesn’t wait, setting up a rhythm that’s slow but thorough, each thrust driving himself completely inside the man beneath him and tearing a wanton noise from Fernando’s throat. The stretch of taking all of Mark inside him and his attempts to make Mark’s movements faster makes Fernando’s whole body tremble, until Mark leans down to kiss him, tongues meeting sloppily around panted breaths, the rhythm speeding up until Fernando’s long hair falls over his eyes and the bed rocks against the wall.

“Are you…” Mark pants, meeting Fernando’s eyes and hoping that he won’t have to use words to finish his question, because they feel completely beyond him right now.

“Yes, _please_ ,” Fernando all but begs, taking Mark’s hand and wrapping it around his cock, and Mark starts to stroke roughly and erratically as his control disintegrates. With a shudder and a low and long groan he comes inside Fernando, the last strokes of his hand and the pulsing of his cock through his final thrusts tipping the other man over the edge with him with a stream of multilingual curses at an embarrassing volume.

Mark is heavy, and he rolls to one side when Fernando pushes him off, exhausted, pulling out his softening cock and tugging Fernando closer to him, both of them ignoring the sticky mess of come and sweat between them.

“Your neighbours are going to hate us,” Mark mumbles, words muffled in Fernando’s damp hair, which then shifts against Mark’s lips as Fernando shakes his head.

“The walls are thick here,” he murmurs, voice slightly roughened. “But I am sure we can give them something to complain about if you wish…”

“You can be _louder_?” Mark chuckles, and Fernando pushes blindly at Mark’s mouth with an uncoordinated hand.

“Who said it would only be me making the noises?” he replies, voice wicked, despite its lowness from the sleep creeping up on them both.

“Next time,” Mark mutters.

“Perhaps in the morning,” Fernando replies, and Mark chuckles again, the last thing they both hear before they drift off.


	34. Chapter 34

“I’ve borrowed a shirt,” Mark says as he walks into the kitchen, buttoning up the least garish shirt he could find in the cupboards.

Fernando turns from the counter, dressed in just his sweatpants and his hair still damp from the shower, and passes Mark a cup of coffee, the mug worn and slightly chipped, with the look of an old favourite, giving him a quizzical look at the same time.

“Have you forgotten already? _Someone_ sent my buttons on a magical mystery tour of your bedroom… If you feel like mending my shirt, then be my guest, but I figured borrowing one was easier.”

Mark thinks that Fernando looks far too smug at that comment, and gives him a wry shake of the head in reply, before sipping on his drink.

It may just be a plain black coffee, but as he leans against the counter Mark realises he’s found the only place in town he’s rather go to drink it than Café Ferrari; that being the kitchen of a certain (currently shirtless) barista, where the coffee comes in a mug that looks as old as he is, served with a smile that would even tempt much stronger men than him.

Fernando disappears back into the bedroom, and comes back in his bright red work shirt just as Mark is finishing his coffee. He leans against the doorframe for a moment, watching Mark stare out the window, before Mark realises he’s being watched. Fernando just smiles.

“It looks good on you.”

“Huh?”

Fernando walks over and runs his hand down the front of Mark’s (well, _Fernando’s_ ) shirt. “This… Although, I know it would look even better _off_ you…“ He tugs disappointedly at the hem. "But I have to leave for work now.”

“Another time?” Mark suggests, putting his mug on the counter beside him, and Fernando smiles.

“Definitely.”

Mark doesn’t really do kisses for the sake of kisses, but Fernando is remarkably difficult to refuse, standing on tiptoes to press their lips together, hand still resting on Mark’s chest.

“I imagine you will not want to do that outside the café,” he shrugs, “so I thought I should make the most of you being here.”

“So I’m walking you to work on my walk of shame?” Mark attempts to look unimpressed, but fails (as always). “But yeah, you thought right, on both counts.” Then he smiles, relenting slightly. “One for the road then?”

Fernando grins, and stretches up again as Mark’s hands link casually behind his back.


	35. Chapter 35

“You have been practically joined at the hip since you got together, you know that, right?” Mark waves an accusatory beer bottle in Jenson’s direction. “Maybe a bit of space will do you both good.”

Mark and Jenson sit on the balcony of Mark’s flat, legs dangling through the railings, and leaning against the wall beside the door. The balcony is tiny, not even big enough for any chairs, but the uninterrupted view down to the ocean makes up for it. The sun is dipping behind the western headland, the sky working its way through the pinks and golds into its deep navy, stars beginning to prick out, and the air cooling down from another baking day.

“That’s not really my point Mark…”

“Ah, if you’re going to start talking about your sex life, I don’t want to know!” Mark interrupts, trying not to laugh.

Jenson just shakes his head. “More like the opposite. He’s been so busy at the restaurant recently, I’ve been lucky to see him even a couple of nights a week…” He sighs, and leans back, staring out across the bay. “That’s a thought actually,” he adds a moment later, “we should’ve been at Nico’s tonight, what with him out and all – there’s actually space on his balcony for _people_.” Jenson laughs, kicking his legs in the open air beyond the railings, but his smile hasn’t quite worked back up to his usual jovial level.

“Jens, I am far too familiar with Nico’s flat to ever need to visit, given the amount you talk about the place.” Mark gives Jenson a disapproving look. “Sadly some of us don’t have daddy’s money to spend. Anyway, if you like it that much, maybe you should move in. Would solve the _‘never seeing him anymore’_ thing.”

Jenson shakes his head again, chuckling. “That’s a bit too serious thanks. Don’t think I’m up for the whole settling down thing anytime soon.”

Mark hums. “No, I suppose not… Talking of _‘not being serious’,_ what happened with you and that Jake bloke then?”

“Nothing happened.” Jenson raises his hands in mock surrender and his voice becomes higher pitched.

“Nothing?” Mark’s eyebrows head skywards. “I think you and I have very different definitions of _‘nothing’_ if that’s what you call snogging his face off in front of everybody. But I’ll presume you mean nothing more than that…”

Jenson can’t help but smile a bit at that – he should feel worse about it than he does, but it _was_ just a kiss. _Well, several kisses, if we’re getting technical…_ “Precisely. I do have a boyfriend you know,” he nods, trying on a righteous expression.

Mark scoffs. “Yeah, and you act like it, space or no space…”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mark.”

Mark ignores the comment, and takes a drink instead. “Are you going to tell said boyfriend then?”

“Probably not,” Jenson admits. “Doubt it would do anyone any good. And I was just a _touch_ on the drunk side, you know that,” he laughs. “You were the one serving the champagne, after all.”

“No excuse mate. And don’t you dare try to blame me.”

“Perfectly good excuse. I was trashed, he was cute. _Really_ cute…”

“That’s quite enough of that,” Mark tries not to laugh, and just manages to look slightly judgemental. “Just because I’m your friend doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you do.”

“Fair enough, I guess.” Jenson grins. “But seriously, he _was_ cute!”

“Cute is your type, not mine.”

“So Seb never caught your eye then?” Jenson almost winks.

Mark snorts and makes a face. “I’m not even dignifying that with a response,” and Jenson bursts into laughter.

“Oh come on, you can’t _still_ dislike the boy for taking David’s old job?”

“You can’t blame me for thinking that after he left the position of _Head Barman_ would go to, perhaps, the more experienced person, not some upstart who’d only just got bored with being a DJ.”

Jenson sighs. “I know, I know. But you’re not telling me you’re genuinely still holding that against him?”

“Nah, I’m not one for grudges mate.” Mark swigs his beer again. “But it does still fuck me off occasionally,” he admits.

“That’s fair enough. I know the way things are at the canteen haven’t exactly been cheering Lewis up lately.”

“Oh? What’s up with Lewis?” Jenson doesn’t need to answer – just raised eyebrows and a meaningful look get the point across. “Ohh, of course. Adrian.”

“Adrian,” Jenson agrees, nodding knowingly.

“Jesus, how long is that going to carry on like that?”

“God knows. This is Lewis we’re talking about.”

“Hell, doesn’t anyone in this town have an uncomplicated relationship?!” Mark chuckles.

Jenson laughs. “Rob and Felipe, obviously.” Mark has to agree there, and nods sagely, tilting his head to one side. “That’s a point,” Jenson continues, “I should’ve said earlier – are you coming to their housewarming? Whenever it is…”

“Not been invited.”

“It’s not exactly guest list…”

“Well, maybe if you lose your plus one you can invite me instead.”

“Trust me, you’re no replacement for Nico!” Jenson’s eyes sparkle naughtily, but Mark knows better than to take Jenson’s constant flirting seriously.

“And tell me how you would know?” he counters, and Jenson laughs.

“Fair point…”

“One nil,” Mark adds.

“Oh I’m sure I’m ahead!”

“In your dreams, Jens.”

Jenson just laughs, leaning back against the wall and squinting out into the bay at the shadowy shape of what might be a cruise liner on the horizon.

“Anyway, what’s so complicated about you and Fernando then?” he says.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a relationship, for starters.”

“What are you now, third date? His house, wasn’t it?” Jenson leans forward again, looking mischievously earnest. “So, how did that go…?” The unasked question is obvious when Jenson has _that_ expression.

“None of your business, thank you…” Mark answers, not even turning to look at Jenson.

“Ha! That’s a yes then!” Jenson flings himself back again triumphantly. “Alright, I’ll admit you’re not a proper relationship if you admit you’ve slept with him.” Mark doesn’t answer, just calmly continuing his drinking, and Jenson laughs again, but his delighted exclamations are cut short when his phone starts to ring in his pocket, and Mark smiles around the neck of his beer.

“It’s Nico… You’ve been saved by the bell there,” Jenson chuckles, struggling to his feet in the cramped space and pointing at Mark with his phone, who waves him inside the house to take the call.

Mark can hear Jenson’s end of the conversation through the half-open door. If Nico’s calling then Jenson will probably be off soon – whatever he may say about not being serious, whatever he may do with other people, no matter how much he flirts with _everyone_ , Mark knows Jenson will drop everything for Nico. _Besotted_ is probably the word Mark would use, even now.

“Hey baby! No, I’m at Mark’s tonight, I didn’t know when you’d be done… Sure, sure. I can come over now if you want? Oh, oh ok. Certain I can’t convince you? I can be over in, ooh, twenty minutes? You _know_ I’ll make it worth you staying up for…” Jenson sighs. “Ok, no, no don’t worry, it’s fine. What about tomorrow…? _Jesus_ Nico, how many late shifts are you going to _do_ in a week?? No, I know it’s important, but you can’t blame me for wanting to actually see you once in a while… Ok, ok, I’m sorry. Text me, alright? I’ll be there, whenever you want. Well, almost whenever. Actually, no, whenever… Love you Britney. Nico, sorry. Love you anyway. Night… night.”

_Oh_. Maybe Jenson wasn’t exaggerating earlier about not seeing him as much…

Jenson sighs as he comes back out onto the balcony, putting the phone back in the pocket of his shorts. “Pass us another, will you?” he says, only half smiling now. For Jenson, who has a different smile for every emotion, that’s practically tears… “In fact,” he continues, “have you got anything stronger?”

Mark huffs, and tries to look consoling. Not something he’s very good at, but he’ll try anyway. “Got some of Caterham’s finest inside,” he says, getting to his feet. “What do you want it with?”

Jenson sighs again, melodramatically this time, waving his hand like a royal dismissing their aide. “Just give me the bottle…”


	36. Chapter 36

Nico loved his job, he really did, but sometimes it wasn’t easy. Not when his boss and his colleague both had a string of Michelin stars to their names. And his father had one too… _No pressure, Nico,_ he huffs to himself. Oh, and his boyfriend, of course. And his best friend… He sighs as he unlocks the restaurant’s back door, and lets himself in. Seriously, did _everyone_ apart from him have an awards cupboard?

But he’d been working damn hard, and things were looking up. To be honest, the late shifts recently were killing him, but then again, you didn’t get anywhere in this town without putting in the extra, and they _had_ been stupidly busy. And then the sheer demand had meant that one night Ross had told him to take over the dishes Michael had been struggling to keep up with, and Michael had glared _so_ hard, and barely spoken to him for days afterwards, saying the very least he could get away with but keeping that smile on his face that Nico didn’t entirely trust… But everything had gone well, that night and the ones that had followed, and now Ross was dropping hints that maybe they’d start splitting the roles more equally between the two chefs and…

Clearly _far_ too many late nights – his thoughts were spinning again. And next time Nels rang at three in the morning he’d remind him that not everyone had a job that allowed (if not _required_ , thanks to the stupid late nights Nelson always seemed to do) them to stay in bed until afternoon. Even though the restaurant didn’t open until lunchtime that didn’t mean that there wasn’t still plenty of prep to be done in the morning. And once again, yep, he was in before Michael. _Unsurprising…_

Nico puts on his white chef’s jacket, and heads into the kitchen. Arriving first was definitely a bonus – he could just get on with his work, without Michael interrupting him with demands for assistance every few minutes, usually for the stupidest tasks too, and the fetching and carrying that Michael couldn’t seem bothered to do himself. In the quiet Nico is soon contentedly underway, multi-tasking happily, rolling pastry sheets out to perfectly uniform thicknesses on the sugar-dusted surfaces, keeping an eye on the trays of biscuits and pastry bases in the ovens, and stirring the pans of caramel, compote, and panna cotta mixtures that are soon filling the air with their sickly sweet aromas. Nico knows the smells would be clinging to his skin and hair by the end of the day, and the thought makes him laugh – Jenson always loved it when he came home still smelling and tasting of his work… _Pervert_ , he sniggers.

“How many of those have you done?”

Nico had been too absorbed in his work and thoughts to notice that Ross had turned up, and he jumps at the voice from over his shoulder. Thankfully though his chef’s instincts mean that he doesn’t knock over any of the pans…

“About half of what we need,” he answers. Why was Ross even asking? He couldn’t want Nico to be working even faster, could he? Had Michael been saying things behind his back? Had Ross seen something wrong on the finished ones, lined up on the stainless steel counter beside them? Had…

“Finish that batch, then I’d like you to move onto the mains,” Ross says with a kindly smile. “From today, you and Michael are sharing the work equally.”

The words sink in, and Nico grins stupidly. “Thank you!” he says, wondering if he should shake Ross’ hand, but with the flour and sugar dust all the way up his arms he decides against it.

Ross tips his head to one side. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I think it is,” Nico agrees, and he grins again, nose wrinkling. _It’s not arrogance,_ he tells himself, _it’s confidence._ You didn’t get anywhere in this town if you didn’t believe in yourself, either.

Then, “Does Michael know?” he asks, suddenly a touch worried. He didn’t really want to have to break the news himself, in all honesty. It wasn’t that he was _scared_ of Michael, not at all, he just didn’t _like_ him. And they did still have to work together…

“Not yet. I’ll be letting him know when he gets in today,” Ross says, frowning slightly as he looks at his watch, before shaking his head slightly. “Anyway, I better let you get on with things.” Ross claps Nico on the back, and leaves for the offices.

The moment the door is shut behind Ross, Nico punches both hands into the air with a _whoop_ , grinning insanely and laughing.

Then he realises that Jenson is going to be _bitterly_ disappointed, and he laughs so hard that he can barely stand up straight.


	37. Chapter 37

One thing about Vitaly, Bruno finds, is that he is just as shy now as he was before they got together, with half smiles and tailed off sentences, and really not a fan of public displays of affection. He won’t exactly pull away if Bruno kisses him on the cheek or takes his hand when they’re out together, but he won’t return the gesture either, just smiling like a bit of an idiot, dropping his head and going quiet, occasionally offering half-hearted mumbled protestations about there being other people around. It doesn’t bother Bruno though – he knows that not all the world is quite as tactile as he is, and anyway, when the doors of their flats shut behind them he’s left in no doubt whatsoever as to how Vitaly really feels, when he’s crowding Bruno up against the wall with fierce kisses before the lock has finished clicking shut…

But Vitaly is used to being misunderstood, through language barriers and reservedness, and so when he notices that he’s not being continually assaulted with the casual touches and excessive displays he’s come to expect irrespective of their location and company, he finds himself staring at the ceiling at night, and starting to worry about what that means Bruno thinks.

“Are we still ok?” Vitaly asks seemingly out of the blue one evening, when it’s just the two of them, walking back from the pitch on a Monday night.

Bruno turns to look at him, both surprised and amused, and laughs lightheartedly. “Of course we are! Why wouldn’t we be?”

“You have stopped…” Another unfinished sentence.

“Stopped what?”

“With the…” Vitaly fumbles for the words, and instead just glances around to check that they are relatively alone, before taking Bruno’s hand and dropping a quick kiss onto his lips. “When there are other people. You do not do that so much. I worry that it is because I stop, or I do not do the same. I am just, not very good around people, I make sense? No, no I do not…”

Bruno has to admit that he finds it totally adorable when his strong and steady Russian gets all flustered over his inability to make himself understood in the only language they share.

“You need to worry less. It seemed you didn’t like it much. And I know how I can be,” he shrugs cheerfully.

Vitaly’s expression is both relieved and concerned. “You do not think that I am, embarrassed? I am not, not at all, not of you,” he insists.

Bruno just smiles, that brain-meltingly genuine smile that _still_ makes Vitaly a little weak at the knees (and Bruno is the only one who he will ever allow to know that).

“Why would I think that?” he asks, and whilst his tone is playful, he’s not teasing. “Even when you are being shy, even when you are not even near me, I can see your smile, and that tells me all I need to know.” Bruno runs his thumb over Vitaly’s lips, like he did all those weeks ago, and grins back when Vitaly can’t stop the way his mouth twitches upwards. “You see, you are smiling again already. No one who sees that can think you are embarrassed to be seen with me. Or that you do not feel all the things you only say when it is just us.”

Vitaly thinks himself absurdly lucky to have someone who understands him so well, without him having to struggle to explain himself every time. He’ll keep trying to explain though, just in case.

Or demonstrating (when he can), which is sometimes better (and easier) than explaining, so he takes hold of Bruno’s hand from where it was still resting on his cheek, and kisses it.

“ _I love you_ ,” he says, but he says it in Russian ( _Ya tebya lyublyu_ , a rough roll of sounds that’s low and soft, gentle and possessive), because the words don’t sound like they mean it in English.

“ _And I love you too_ ,” Bruno replies, and that’s in Portuguese ( _E eu também te amo_ , a bright and open bounce of syllables, theatrical but genuine), because whilst they don’t always understand each other, they _understand_ each other perfectly.


	38. Chapter 38

“What do you think they talk about?” Felipe has sidled up to Fernando as subtly as possible, and the question is asked in hushed tones. The effect though is decidedly _not_ subtle, and Fernando scoffs at him.

“I do not know Felipe. Probably more interesting things than you talk about.”

Felipe makes a face and retreats to the other end of the counter, busying himself with cleaning the iced-coffee blenders, and listening _very_ hard to the conversation that he can’t quite catch from the other side of the café and over the sounds of the other customers.

It isn’t long though until his curiosity gets the better of him, and he’s back next to Fernando at the till.

“You never think about it?” he asks, trying to stare out of the corner of his eye at the three men at the table near the door, the angle straining his eyes and making silver sparkles dance in front of his vision. “They are important people, it must be important things, no?”

“No, I do not,” Fernando replies. “Maybe you should go ask them?”

Felipe looks at him with an expression that informs him of the sheer stupidity of that suggestion more clearly than any spoken words ever could.

“If you care _that_ much, why do you not go clean some tables and listen in?” Fernando suggests in a long-suffering tone. He’d suggest _anything_ right now to get Felipe to _go away_ – he’s trying to think up new coffee recipes in his head, one to rival the maple latte that Felipe has been pushing of late, and said Brazilian barista is interrupting his obviously genius ideas.

But Felipe perks up. “Good idea…” he says, and picks up a cloth and spray bottle, before meandering across the café in a way that makes him look immediately suspicious.

*

“Felipe’s listening in again,” Christian says, making the smallest of nods towards the barista at the counter.

Martin laughs. “I wonder what he thinks we’re talking about?”

“Plans to take over the world?” Christian answers, chuckling.

“That’s just you,” Martin replies.

“He should stop listening and keep working,” Stefano grumbles. “He is enough trouble as it is.”

“Oh come on Stefano. There’s no one waiting,” Christian chides.

“And he makes a damn good coffee, you can’t deny that,” Martin adds. “What’s in this one, anyway?”

“Maple syrup, I think he said,” Christian answers. “Pretty damn good, indeed.”

Stefano smiles, allowing just a hint of pride into his voice. “Well, we would not keep him if he was not good at what he does.”

“Anyway, we should probably stop talking about him now, he’s coming over.”

“Still listening in?”

“Oh most definitely. He is the _least_ subtle person I’ve ever seen.”

“You should have seen him when we had to call the engineer out so often. They were both so awkward, it was painful,” Stefano admits.

“Oh, Rob? Yes, I know him… I can imagine!” Martin almost laughs, and Christian is shaking his head and chuckling.

“At least you’ve never had employees, erm, _getting it on_ in the storerooms…” he says, with an awkward tone that speaks of unfortunate experience in this area.

“Thank god, no!” Martin laughs, and Stefano joins in with a chuckle.

“What about those two then?” Christian adds, tilting his head to the counter. “Rivalry has never led to…?”

Stefano almost snorts his drink out through his nose at the thought, an action so inelegant and unlike the normally composed Italian that there’s a split second of stunned silence, before all three of them start laughing, and even the other customers look round to stare.

“I think they would sooner kill each other!” Stefano exclaims, ignoring his momentary loss of dignity.

“Hatefuck?” Christian suggests, with a raised eyebrow and an otherwise completely straight face, accompanied by a refined sip of his drink.

There’s half a moment of silence whilst Martin’s brain processes _quite_ what he’s just heard (and once again Stefano attempts to choke on his drink) before the absurdity of those words in Christian’s measured tone and perfectly middle-class accent make Martin absolutely roar with laughter, and seconds later the trio have completely degenerated into a fit of unsophisticated hysterics that no one in the café would have thought possible from three of the town’s most respected men.

“Would you please stop trying to kill Stefano, Christian!” Martin pleads, his eyes damp and his sides hurting, their laughter subsiding. “I don’t think I could cope if it was just you and me!”

They’ve just got themselves under control again when Felipe, desperate to find out quite what’s so funny, appears (apparently from out of nowhere) behind Stefano’s head. Martin and Christian just blink at him for a moment, before they’re in stitches all over again, and Felipe hastily retreats to the counter, feeling decidedly got at.

*

“They are laughing at me!” Felipe sulks when he gets back to the till.

Fernando sighs. “Felipe, they are not laughing at you. You are paranoid.”

“They were!” he insists, and pouts.

“So what were they saying?”

“I do not know. I could not hear.”

Fernando drops his forehead onto his hand. “So how do you know they were talking about you?” he asks wearily. “No, actually, never mind, I do not care…” Fernando gives up entirely, escaping to the stockroom for some peace and leaving Felipe pouting and semi-glowering at the till.


	39. Chapter 39

The morning rush is over, Felipe working through receipts at the till when the bell jangles, and he looks up to see Mark enter.

“Fernando! Is your boyfriend,” Felipe calls in a slightly sing-song voice to the other barista in the back room, stepping away from the till and already deciding to take the opportunity to sneak out back and fire off a quick text to Rob (yes he’s seeing him in the evening anyway, but so what?).

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Mark corrects, the flash of an uncomfortable expression crossing his face.

Felipe stops, and looks up. “ _Really?_ ” he asks, looking bemused. “I thought…”

Felipe tails off, glancing round to see Fernando standing in the back doorway, looking somewhere between devastated, horrified, and completely in shock.

“I will… leave you two to it, no…?” Felipe says, taking a step backwards, and preparing to practically _run_ out back.

“No, I think you should take this one,” Fernando says tersely, shock replaced by anger, disappearing before either Mark or Felipe have a chance to say anything.

“Wait, Nando, hang on…” Mark’s expression is distraught, and he looks like he’s considering jumping the counter to follow him. Felipe has no idea quite what just happened, but even he knows that it can’t just be left like this - mainly because Mark looks like he might damage something rather expensive…

“You, you wait there,” Felipe instructs firmly, gesturing that Mark is _not_ to move, and jogging after his colleague. _Oh boy._

“I didn’t mean…” comes Mark’s voice from behind him, but the sentence goes unfinished as Felipe drops out of earshot.

As Felipe enters the break room there’s a metallic _bang_ , making him jump, and he finds Fernando hissing and shaking his hand, pacing in front of the now slightly dented lockers.

Fernando looks up, and scowls.

“Tell him I do not want to speak to him,” he spits.

“I am not passing messages, Fernando, we are not schoolchildren.” _Since when was_ ** _he_** _the mature one?_ Felipe thinks to himself.

“Well he will work it out when I do not come out until he leaves.”

Felipe sighs. “One of you has clearly misunderstood something, no?”

Fernando seems to deflate slightly, quivering fury suddenly dissipating. Felipe doesn’t think he’s ever seen his ever-confident colleague look so dejected. “Yes, and I think it was me,” he says.

Felipe scratches at his temple. “Well not talking at all will not solve that, for sure.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

Dejected yes, but still stubborn as all hell. _Aiii_ … Felipe glances out through the door and back into the café. Thankfully no one else has turned up, and Mark is still hovering awkwardly by the till, almost pacing and trying not to look as agitated as he clearly feels.

“He is still out there,” Felipe says. “You do not have to talk to him properly right now, just…” he sighs and spreads his hands in an entreaty to Fernando’s sensible side, “I do not think he will leave until you speak to him.” The other barista glowers at Felipe for a moment, but after a heavy silence, where Felipe folds his arms and has to resist tapping his foot, eventually relents. “I will go out first, ok?” Felipe says, trying to sound encouraging, already at the doorway.

“You are not to cause a scene in here,” Felipe stage-whispers to Mark when he’s back at the till. He’s well aware of the irony in that statement, but then again, if anyone knows the trouble Fernando would be in if they _did_ start a shouting match, it’s certainly Felipe…

Mark looks up hopefully and Fernando is stood back in the doorway.

“Nando, I…”

Fernando cuts him off. “I will talk to you tomorrow. Come back at my lunch break, I will meet you outside.” Mark tries again to say something, but the baristas present a united front, arms folded, Fernando looking thunderous and Felipe stern but sympathetic, and it’s all Mark can do to just nod and walk out the café without kicking something.

When Felipe turns back, Fernando is still staring at the door after him, expression set into a grim line.

“You should go home,” he says. “I can cover. Is not busy.”

Fernando’s eyes flick to his colleague, and he straightens up. “No, it is fine. I would rather stay busy.”

As if on cue, the bell jangles to announce the entry of Romain, Jean-Eric, Jerome, and Charles, chattering away as they always do. Felipe pushes Fernando back towards the machines, where he can mope without being scrutinised by the clientele, and he pins his most customer-friendly grin across his own face.

“Buongiorno, gentlemen, what can I get for you?”

*

The bar is technically shut at this time of day, but no place is really shut to a man who has the keys.

“What did you go and say that for?!” Jenson almost laughs with exasperation, swilling the whisky in his glass. “That was quite possibly the _stupidest_ thing you’ve ever done. And I’ve known you a long time… I mean, I know you said you didn’t think you were in a proper relationship, but I didn’t think, you’re not meant to… oh I don’t even know!”

Mark leans on the bar, head in his hands, looking utterly miserable. “I just, I didn’t want to assume anything. He seemed so set on doing things, _properly_. I thought we were taking it slow.”

“You slept with him. That’s hardly taking it slow.”

“That’s not the point, Jens.” There’s a lack of the customary _mate_ at the end of every sentence.

Jenson sighs, and tops Mark’s glass up with the bottle that Mark had left on the bar next to them.

“I’ve fucked this up completely, haven’t I?” Mark groans, gesturing to Jenson to keep filling the glass _far_ beyond the industry-standard double measure, and Jenson can’t help but chuckle slightly.

“You have to remember, Mark, he’s not you. He’s _Fernando_. He’s Spanish, and temperamental, and,” Jenson waves vaguely in the air as he searches for the right word, “ _passionate_. No half measures, and all that type of thing. And by the sounds of things, he’s a bit of a romantic at heart, with the wining and dining… so yeah, I think you’ve managed to say the worst thing possible there…”

Mark’s head falls onto the bar with a _thunk._

“Fuck,” he mumbles into the crook of his own elbow, and Jenson puts his hand on his shoulder and half rocks, half shakes him.

“Stop moping. Just because you’ve messed it up doesn’t mean that it can’t be _un_ -messed.” Mark raises his head slightly to look at Jenson. “You’re seeing him tomorrow, right? Well then, what are you going to say?”

Mark just groans, and rubs his hand at the back of his neck. He’s already _far_ too drunk for this time of day. Hopefully Christian isn’t going to decide to drop into the office this afternoon…

“Probably nothing. I’ll probably be too hungover to move. Hopefully.”

Jenson gives him a gentle shove. “No you won’t. And if you are, I’ll go see him instead. Tell him you drank yourself into a stupor from heartbreak.”

Mark groans in disgust. “Don’t you dare.”

“So go on then, try me. Or I will…!” Jenson spins his barstool to face Mark’s. “I am Fernando: defend yourself!” he announces.

Mark raises a dejected eyebrow. “You are the least Fernando-like person I know,” he mumbles.

Jenson laughs. “More than, say, Nico?”

“Just as arrogant. Equally stupid hair.”

Jenson punches Mark in the arm. “No insulting my boyfriend, or I’ll just leave you to your moping.”

Mark sits up, slowly, and the expression on his face is genuinely wretched. Jenson reaches out and rests his hand reassuringly on Mark’s arm, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentle.

“Seriously, you can fix this, okay? You’ve just got your wires crossed. Now c’mon, what are you going to say to him?”


	40. Chapter 40

Possibly drinking heavily through most of yesterday afternoon and evening hadn’t been the best idea, because not only had Mark’s brain consigned most of his conversation with Jenson to the _junk_ section of his memory, but he’d woken in the morning feeling decidedly worse for wear. And then he’d turned up at Café Ferrari only for Felipe to nip outside and tell him that Fernando was running late, and that he should meet him at the Lotus Parlour…

Mark does feel slightly that they’re on Fernando’s territory, as he takes a seat on the terrace at Black Ices, but it has been a very long time since Fernando had worked here, and it’s not really the same place anymore – the colours are different, the staff are different, the name is different, hell, even the menu is completely different these days.

He doesn’t have the chance to pursue the thought any further though, because the man himself is sliding into the seat opposite, expression still fixed into an attempt at _emotionless_ , but too tight to hide the remnants of the anger and hurt that he’s clearly trying to disguise. Mark is surprised to find that he can read it far more easily than he would ever have expected – _doesn’t want to admit he cared, doesn’t want to show weakness, or lose the upper hand_. It makes him wonder what his own expression looks like.

For a moment, neither of them say anything.

Then,

“I’m sorry,” Mark starts with. It seemed the safest option, and it’s certainly not the accusation of _you misunderstood me_ that Jenson had told him straight not to start with (that much he _had_ remembered), but Fernando looks, if anything, even angrier than when he sat down.

“For what? For not telling me that I was, what, just a casual fuck?”

“No, Christ, no, not at all…”

“So you are not sorry?” Fernando throws his hands into the air. “Fine, fine, I should just go then,” and he’s already starting to stand up.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re not listening…” Mark tone is impatient as he reaches out and grabs Fernando’s wrist before he can storm off.

When Fernando looks down, after a moment that seems much longer than it could have actually been, Mark doesn’t have an expression anywhere near what Fernando expects, and it’s certainly not the expression a man ditching someone should have – it’s not guilty, it’s imploring, and slightly desperate. “Just let me explain, ok?”

Fernando sits down, and gives Mark a guarded look.

“So explain then,” he says.

“I didn’t realise we were, I don’t know, _official_.”

“Why not?”

“I thought we weren’t rushing into anything.”

“You could have told me that.”

“I thought _you_ didn’t want to rush into anything. You were the one talking about etiquette and all that.”

“I was also the one who invited you to my _house_ ,” Fernando counters. “So what did you think? Because I do not just jump into bed with anyone.”

“I know you don’t. Neither do I, trust me. I just thought you would’ve asked me straight if that was what you wanted.” He laughs, just a short, breathy noise and looks away. “That’s what you usually do…”

“Maybe I was waiting for you to ask me…” Fernando says after a pause, and Mark looks up to see him looking slightly (but only ever so slightly) sheepish through his defiant stare.

_Etiquette, of course,_ Mark realises, mentally slapping himself on the forehead. He takes a deep breath. “In which case, do you still want me to ask you, or have I fucked this up already?”

“I don’t know, have you?” Fernando raises his eyebrows.

“Christ’s sake, Nando, I’m asking you out. Properly. I want there to be an us. I want more, _many_ more evenings like the last one. I want to make you dinner at my place. I want to come to your football matches like Jenson does for Nico.” Mark screws his face up briefly. “Well, not _quite_ like Jenson does for Nico…. I want… I just want you.” He sighs anxiously, and then barks a tense laugh. “Fuck, ruined or not I want my shirt back at the very least… I liked that shirt.”

Fernando snorts. “But I want to keep it,” he says, with the flirtatiously superior smile that Mark is much more used to seeing, and honestly, he can’t think of anything he’d rather see right now. “I suppose,” Fernando continues, idly turning his sunglasses over in his hands, “that since we have had our first argument already, then yes, we definitely should, _make it official…_ ”

Mark smiles, not a grin, because he doesn’t really do _grinning_ , but it’s genuine and relieved.

“Good, great, yeah that’s fantastic.” He smiles again, slightly nervously, not quite sure what to say next. “But Nando?”

“Hm?”

“Next time I say something stupid, give me a chance to explain before you flounce out.”

Fernando smiles. “Next time, do not say such stupid things, then I will not have to flounce anywhere.”

Mark just chuckles. “This is me, mate. I _always_ say stupid things. I can’t help it.”

“Well I just hope the make-up sex is good.”

_The thing is_ , Mark thinks, laughing, and watching the man across the table smile that wry, superior, and yet somehow simultaneously almost shy smile, _is that Fernando seems completely serious._


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my absolute favourite chapters to write - with this and the fictional F1 race I wrote that time, apparently I just really enjoy writing sporting events that never actually happened...

The match against arch-rivals Atletico Indy is always one of, if not the, biggest of the season – with more than a small number of both the opposition team and its supporters having once lived in Fia there’s a history between the two clubs, and the atmosphere is always somewhere between a familiar reunion and a grudge match, with rivalries and old friendships mixing in the air and ramping up the excitement of both the crowd and players far beyond the normal levels, each side acting like they have something to prove. Even those who have no personal involvement find the atmosphere sucking them in, the cheers of the spectators mixed with uncharacteristic jeers and whistles, the game fast-paced and scrappy, full of overly-clumsy tackles and dives, over-aggressive defending, and over-excited pleas to the referee, who often finds himself surrounded by bickering players, and whose yellow card comes flashing out far more often than anyone is used to.

But the strongest tensions are on the touchline, between ex-Fia-resident Rubens Barrichello and Fia-returnee Michael Schumacher: the two coaches had once been colleagues, had never been friends, and had _always_ been rivals. The pre-match handshake is short and cold, the two men eyeing each other icily before retreating to the dugouts, memories of the last time these two teams had met still fresh in their minds (when the coaches had almost come to blows over a refereeing decision that could have gone either way, ending with Michael red-carded and sent to the stands, and Rubens given a caution…).

Sporting Fia win the toss, and the ref blows the whistle for kickoff. It’s Vettel, to Massa, back to Vettel, to Rosberg, a sprint down the wing, and then he’s on the ground, Jenson on his feet in the stands yelling, Atletico Indy insisting that it was a legitimate tackle, Sporting Fia arguing that _like hell it was_ , and the tone is set for the whole match already.

The first half starts stilted, any flow to their play held back through caution or incidents, unnecessary tackles, studs a touch too high, jerseys tugged on, bodies bumping into each other, trips, dives, and slides, and every decision argued over. Some players banter and exchange not-serious-really insults with old acquaintances, friends, and (in Di Resta’s case) even family in the opposing strip, whilst others hurl heartfelt curses and square up to each other, and one or two try their best to keep out of any altercations entirely.

But as the minutes tick by the intensity begins to rise, and chances appear for both sides. An over-optimistic shot from Alonso soars over the crossbar, and Atletico Indy’s answering goal kick then turns into a run that then smacks into the woodwork, and Heidfeld is yelling _Where were you?!_ to his defence, who were caught unawares and are still sprinting back down the pitch.

It’s a corner to Atletico Indy, but it’s cleared by an impressive header from D’Ambrosio, caught by a neat bit of trick-like footwork from Alguersuari, and punted up to Petrov, who slips over, landing on his back and putting his hands on his forehead in frustration and embarrassment as it rolls wide of the practically undefended goal, the crowd groaning and cheering in equal measures as Massa helps Petrov to his feet. The striker shrugs sheepishly at Bruno, who’s at the very front of the crowd, and who can’t help but laugh at Vitaly.

The openings keep coming, Sporting Fia making a concerted attack on Atletico Indy’s goal, an onslaught that ends eventually with a untidy tangle at the goalmouth, off the crossbar from Vettel, smacked back in by Petrov but punched back out by the goalie, scrapped over between what appears to be the entirety of both teams in the six yard box, most of whom seem to end up on the ground, until the ball is flicked backwards by Massa and into the back of the net. The home supporters are deafening, cheers and yells led by an ecstatic Rob Smedley, as Massa finds himself at the bottom of a pile of delighted footballers, and the whistle goes for half time at one nil to the home team.

Atletico refuse to give up though, and by the start of the second half they’ve regrouped, turning the pressure right up on Sporting Fia. Within the opening five minutes of the half their Japanese striker Sato has dodged past Fia’s defensive line, and it’s in the back of the net before anyone really realised it was happening.

If the ref had felt overworked in the first half, he was in no way prepared for what was to come in the second. Di Resta and Franchitti scrap it out like they’re playing in their back garden. Alonso is sent flying by Bourdais when he literally throws himself into a last gasp defensive tackle. A header by Wilson almost turns into a somersault when he collides with Hulkenberg. Then Hinchcliffe sends a belter in past Heidfeld to take the lead for the visitors, and all hell breaks loose.

Maldonado is hastily subbed after he was lucky not to be red-carded for a two-footed tackle, and Ricciardo jogs on to take his place. Kanaan is floored by Petrov when the Russian is going for an equaliser. Alguersuari is taken down in the box and all of Sporting Fia cry _penalty_ , both teams swarming around the ref and arguing their case at full volume, but the ref calls _dive_ , and it’s a goal kick instead. The coaches are yelling from the sidelines, Michael frowning and pacing with his arms folded, Rubens leaping into the air with joy or throwing his hands out in frustration at every little incident.

But if Indy won’t give up, then neither do Fia, who keep pushing forward, slowly wearing away the visitors’ defence. The equaliser comes from a perfectly executed set piece – a flawless corner that’s finished with a beautifully precise strike from Vettel, Fia’s own _wunderkind_ running around the pitch with his finger in the air, until he’s bundled to the ground by an overjoyed Jaime.

The last twenty minutes are frantic as Atletico Indy throw everything they have at the game, a handful of final shots going wide or scuffed. However, it’s to no avail – Fia’s defence is impenetrable, and the match finishes 2-2, the whistle blowing to the accompaniment of groans from both ends of the ground. But disappointment soon becomes mild amusement, and on the pitch the players are soon quite happily congratulating each other, swapping shirts and shaking hands, laughing over tackles and teasing over scraped knees and elbows. Paul is chatting to Dario, asking after his uncle back in Indy, Sébastien and Sebastian are catching up as they tug off their shin pads, reminiscing about time spent DJing together, and Takuma is on the sidelines, embracing his old colleague Jenson. Because after all, it’s just a bit of fun really, and they wouldn’t be such fierce rivals to start with if some of them hadn’t been such firm friends.

*

“Maybe we should take the lead from that lot?”

Rubens turns to find Michael standing beside him, an eyebrow raised and his head tilted to one side as he offers a hand to shake.

Rubens doesn’t take it. He doesn’t believe that attempt at a genuine smile for a moment.

“Sorry Michael,” he replies, shaking his head, almost sadly. “Sometimes there’s just too much history. And you haven’t changed, not really, whatever everyone else seems to think.”

Felipe calls from the other side of the pitch, yelling something in Portuguese about finally meeting Rob before he has to leave, and Rubens leaves Michael standing on the sidelines as he jogs across to his old friend. Michael’s expression flickers, more annoyance than anything else, but then it’s gone, marshalled back into his usual smooth smile.

“Your loss,” he says, more to himself than the man now completely out of earshot.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first and last parts of this section “are” in Portuguese, but I couldn’t get the characterisation right at the time unless I butchered their English to a certain extent…

“The Brazilian Mafia are back in town!” Rubens announces, and the three of them cheer and raise their glasses.

“Well, some of us are,” Bruno corrects, but he’s whacked on the arm by Felipe, a signal to stop talking and join him and Rubens in knocking back their cocktails as fast as they can. Then Felipe slams his empty glass down on the table with a triumphant grin, and almost cackles as Rubens nearly chokes on the end of his.

“I am getting too old for this!” Rubens splutters.

“Oh no, you do not get to wimp out on us already,” Felipe replies, already refilling all their glasses from the jug. “Especially not when we see you this rarely nowadays.”

“Well either I am getting even older than I thought I was, or this is much stronger than the last time you made it!” Rubens answers, sipping at his (newly refilled) drink.

“I used the same amounts of everything as always, you watched me,” Felipe argues back, swigging his drink as if to prove a point.

“That would be my fault,” Bruno interrupts. “You used the vodka Vitaly gave us, yes? That’s much stronger than your stuff, Felipe.”

Rubens laughs. “Bruno, are you trying to get us drunk? Because if you are, you’re not meant to tell us! As for you, Felipe, it seems you’re dating the wrong man,” Rubens teases. “Sensible ol’ Bruno’s other half has given us an entire bottle of premium spirits, and where’s your lad, eh? Scarpered. I thought you said he was a party boy?”

“He had to work a late shift tonight, is not his fault.”

“Especially when the party is at _his_ house,” Bruno adds, apparently ignoring Felipe’s comment, and already halfway through his drink.

“ _Our_ house,” Felipe corrects. “It is as much mine as his. And anyway, we are having a proper housewarming party soon, you know that.”

Rubens slings his arm around Felipe’s shoulders and ruffles his hair. “Getting serious then, are we?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Felipe insists, struggling out of Rubens’ grip and trying to flatten his hair. “But you cannot talk, with your children and your new life miles away.”

“Ah, but I am _older_ than you Felipe. I am meant to be dull and boring and go to bed early and wear slippers.”

“In which case we should send you to bed now and we will drink all of this,” Felipe mock-glares back.

“Anyway, Tony is clearly more boring than you, _old man_ ,” Bruno adds, “if he would not even come for a drink with us when he was in town anyway.”

“So you would not want to go home if you had been nearly taken out completely by a six foot something Russian in the penalty box?” Rubens looks pointedly at Bruno.

“No, I would not,” Felipe answers, before Bruno has a chance to reply. “I would join my friends and drink it off!”

“Hey, do not look at me, Rubens!” Bruno laughs. “He is my boyfriend, not my puppy!”

“Are you sure about that?” Felipe asks. “He does follow you around rather… In fact, why are you not with him now?”

“Oh, and this is not the first time I have seen you without Rob around in months then?”

“We live together, what do you expect?”

Rubens laughs. “Whilst you two have been arguing over who has the most sickly-sweet, honeymoon-period relationship, I have caught up…” and he waggles the now empty jug.

“What’s next then?” Bruno asks, downing the last of his too.

“I did bring a bottle of Tequila, a present from a friend back in Indy…”

Felipe makes a face and swears under his breath, something about _bloody Mexico_ , and Rubens laughs.

“Calm down, Felipe, Sergio did not take your job in the end.”

“Yes, but he could have done! I am just lucky that Sauber is such a nice place to work that he did not want to leave.”

“I thought I heard they wanted him to have some more training first…” Rubens adds, still looking through the line of bottles on the sideboard.

“How did you hear that?” Felipe demands.

“Oh shush, things are much better than they were,” Bruno interrupts. “And anyway, you cannot complain about work, your workplace did not explode!”

“I think things are better all round these days, no?” Rubens says, uncorking the tequila bottle and finding the shot glasses. He doesn’t elaborate further though – since he’d left Frank’s place he and Bruno had kept to an unspoken agreement to not really talk much about work (the fire having been the understandable exception to the rule). “As I said, Felipe, you just need to relax. Oh, and Felipe? You do not have to drink this if you don’t want,” he jokes. Felipe sticks his tongue out, snatches the bottle, fills a shot glass, and downs it immediately, muttering something about how nothing and nobody, Mexican or otherwise, was going to get in the way of him having a good time.

“So where’s Lucas tonight?” Bruno swiftly changes the subject.

“You know he is a nightmare to get hold of these days. I tried, but,” Felipe shrugs, “no luck.”

“Well, they say three is a crowd…!” Rubens laughs.

“And plenty to get this party started!” Bruno replies. “Maestro, if you please!”

Felipe bows, grinning, and hits play on the stereo, and the apartment fills with the sounds of one of Pink Floyd’s more obscure albums…

“What is _that_?!” Bruno demands through his laughter.

“Since when were you a classic rock fan?” Rubens asks, picking up the CD case from the top of the stereo.

“Is Rob’s, I kind of like it, no?”

“No!” laughs Bruno. “Put something _good_ on!”

Felipe pouts, but dutifully changes the CD to something that they’re all a bit more familiar with.

“Better now?” he tries to sulk.

“Much!” Bruno and Rubens laugh at the same time.

*

The phone rings in behind the counter in Café Ferrari.

“Buongiorno?”

The first answer is just a groan, before, “Fernando, I am glad it is you who picked up.”

His colleague sounds _dreadful_. “What is it Felipe?”

“Can you tell Stefano I will not be in today… Make up some excuse for me, thinking hurts.”

“Are you… you are hungover, aren’t you?” Fernando starts laughing. “For sure, I will, but then you will owe me one!“

Felipe just groans down the line in reply, followed by a mumbled _thank you_ , and Fernando hangs up, still laughing at his unfortunate colleague.

*

“I thought you said _I_ was the one getting past it, eh?” Rubens teases, appearing at the kitchen door, where Felipe is slumped over the table, a glass of water and the phone next to him.

“Shut up Rubens…” he groans, waving pathetically to shoo him out of the room. “Leave me to my misery.”

Rubens laughs, and saunters out. “No stamina, these young ‘uns.”


	43. Chapter 43

“You need to get out,” Jenson says, jabbing a cloth in Lewis’s direction.

“I was out the other day,” he answers, a little too defensively.

“That was a week ago. Have you been out since?”

“I’ve been busy,” is the clipped reply.

“What, moping?”

Jenson’s light-heartedness is starting to grate on Lewis now.

“Staring at the frickin’ walls and plotting ways to shut you up.”

“Come up with anything interesting?” Jenson grins, refusing to be drawn in.

Lewis sighs with exasperation. “Don’t you ever give up, man?”

“Nope!” Another grin. “But seriously, I don’t know what’s up, and I won’t pry…”

“That’s a first…” Lewis mutters.

“… _won’t_ pry,” Jenson repeats, “but as your colleague, and hopefully friend, it is my heartfelt _duty_ to cheer you up. Therefore, I have cleared your schedule this Tuesday, and Nico says he’s free too, so you now have plans. How nice am I, giving up time with my boyfriend that I _never see_ anymore so he can spend it with you?”

“I see even less of him since you two hooked up,” Lewis mutters in reply. The last thing Lewis wants is to owe Jenson, but he can’t deny that it’s been a while since he and Nico have hung out like they used to, all the way back to their school days, skipping classes to go swimming at the beach, trying (and failing) to chat up girls who were _way_ out of their league on the terrace outside Café Ferrari, and making grand promises that they’d always be friends (though somehow, through everything, they’d managed to keep to those).

“There you go then. Tuesday. No questions. I will throw you out if you try to turn up for work.”

Lewis sighs, and yields. There’s no arguing with Jenson when he’s like this. He’ll only smile, or worse, start dishing out the hugs…

*

“Oi!” Lewis yelps as the bright red bicycle barrels past, practically knocking him over. “Watch where the frick you’re going!”

Felipe laughs, looking over his shoulder to make a _nyah_ gesture at the Brit, who raises his middle finger to the Brazilian in reply. But Lewis’ retort is ruined rather when the second bicycle bombs past, and Rob flicks Lewis’ cap off (with remarkable precision, considering his speed), catching up with Felipe to high five him and join him in laughter as they race off down the main street together.

“Fuck’s sake, those two are disgusting.”

“ _Someone_ needs to just get laid,” Nico laughs, elbowing Lewis in the ribs.

“Shut up, Rosberg.”

“You’re far too grumpy. But no,” Nico adds, “I’m not volunteering…”

Lewis makes a face at the suggestion, before finding his cap on the ground for the second time in as many minutes. And then it’s a different pair of troublemakers causing cries of protest on the main street, as Nico darts off into the crowds, and Lewis gives chase with a yell of _I’ll get you for that, Rosberg!_

*

Jenson doesn’t really care about the details of Nico and Lewis’ day out – all he knows is that when Lewis turns up on Wednesday morning, he looks happier and more relaxed than he’s done in weeks.

That doesn’t stop him though from sidling up to Lewis and offering a far too cheerful, “ _See, I told you you just needed some time off._ ” This is Jenson after all.

Lewis’ reply catches him completely off guard. “Yeah, maybe you were right there Jens, life is better with the important people around.”

It’s an admission he was wrong along with an unspoken apology and almost a thank you, all bundled up with a whole load of other so very un-Lewis things that Jenson is left standing whilst his brain figures out that _yes, he did just hear that right._

Then Jenson shakes himself. “A thank you would be nice!” he calls with a wink, and Lewis resorts to his usual weapon of retaliation – a high-speed damp cloth at head-height – but today he’s fighting down a silly grin despite his uncharacteristically bad aim.


	44. Chapter 44

It’s the last day before Eddie ships out of town again, taking his own yacht and heading up the coast, and as a (temporary) farewell dinner there’s only one place for the BBCruises crew to go – the Force India Balti, which years ago had been Eddie’s own Jordan’s Irish Pub. It’s unrecognisable now though from the slightly haphazard old pub, the building extended and modernised, the floorplan changed, and the old cheerful yellow paint replaced with a much more modern combination of white with orange and green. But Eddie still is fond of the place, and neither David nor Jake will turn down a decent curry when it’s on offer, especially when Eddie’s prepared to pay…

It’s busy but not packed, with a comfortable background hum of conversation, and the kitchen staff can’t be too busy, because every time their blond waiter comes out of the kitchen with the trolley of food he’s grinning like he’s stifling the giggles, and there’s laughter in a Scottish accent following him through the door.

“Those two get on really well don’t they? And I mean _really_ well,” David says, as their waiter returns to the kitchen, their table now piled with a whole range of different dishes, from crispy samosas and fluffy coloured rice, to thick curries and a naan that’s almost big enough to wear (for the diminutive Irishman anyway, if not for the decidedly loftier Englishman).

“Who? Those two?” Jake asks, angling his head slightly towards the kitchen door, where the chef is holding the door open for the waiter, despite the fact that it’s a swing door, designed to be pushed open from both sides without the need for anyone to hold it…

“Yeah, Paul and Nico. Don’t you think?” David asks.

Eddie purses his lips and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know, it’s all a bit after my time rather.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you being up on the gossip before now!” David scoffs, but Eddie refuses to rise to the bait, busying himself instead with tearing off naan bread and tucking into his food.

“No clue here either,” Jake says. “This isn’t my town, and I’m not sure I’ve even met those two before tonight.”

David just hmms, ladling a vicious-looking madras onto his plate.

“Never mind about their love-lives, David,” Eddie says, waving his fork in his colleague’s direction, “what I don’t understand is how a Scot, with an Italian last name, can make such a damn good curry!”

“We did invent the tikka masala, you know,” David answers, his mind back on the more important matters of the evening.

“No you did not!” Jake laughs.

“Yes we did, in Glasgow, did you not know?”

It doesn’t matter how much ‘evidence’ David continues to provide them with, neither of the other two men can be convinced.

*

Evening service is over, and Jules is clearing the final plates up out front whilst Nico and Paul are out back, Paul cleaning up the pans and Nico loading the dishwasher. Loading the dishwasher far more slowly than normal, because otherwise he’ll be done well before Paul is, and tonight’s been such a laugh, he really doesn’t want it to be over… Which is pathetic really, because it’s just another night at work, nothing special.

It’s so unfair really. Paul is just so easy going, so _uncomplicated_. He just gets on with things, whatever they may be. He smiles when he’s happy, laughs when something is amusing (in particular when Nico does something stupid, which makes him feel happy and self-conscious at the same time, which is always confusing…), and when he gets angry he doesn’t stay that way for long. Not to mention that he’s damn good at what he does, and he’s quietly driven too, but with a modest self-confidence that makes him stupidly likeable and insufferably easy to get on with.

Whereas Nico… he’s stuck with all his hangups, his awkward shyness and stupid insecurities, which would be bad enough by themselves, but with a temper as short as his and his lack of patience it all comes out as a defensive cynicism and grumpiness, with a sense of humour no one gets and smiles that no one believes. Not even himself half the time, because they always look like pouts or grimaces (and let’s face it, most of the time they are, he’s always just waiting for the actual meaning behind other people’s words, there always is one, after all… except with Paul…). So yeah, it’s not his fault that people think that he’s an antisocial grouch.

Not that Paul seems to think that though. In fact, when Nico had mentioned it (after he’d said something characteristically stupid and got equally characteristically cross with himself and had just wanted to hide away, but couldn’t, so just said something self-depreciating about not being good with people, and _anyway_ …) Paul had looked genuinely surprised. “I’ve never thought so,” he’d said. “You go quiet occasionally, but what’s wrong with that?” And Nico had screwed up his nose and smiled, actually smiled, and suddenly he wasn’t cross with himself anymore.

And about twenty seconds later that silly fluttery shyness that was simultaneously warm and comfortable turned into a horrid sinking feeling, pretty much at the precise moment that he identified exactly _what_ that initial feeling was, and quite what that meant (because it had been growing for a while now), and how much trouble he was now in… Because Paul _was_ uncomplicated; the last person in town who’d notice a colleague with a stupid crush, let alone be prepared to get involved with that same colleague (but Nico refused to even entertain that daydream. Completely refused. Didn’t think about it at all. Least of all when Paul smiled at him and he found himself smiling back at nothing and dear god he really was in trouble, wasn’t he…).

“You alright?”

Nico looks up. “Yeah, sure, fine,” he lies. “Was just thinking.”

“Clearly it’s no good for you, you were far cheerier earlier tonight.”

Nico shrugs, and Paul goes back to his clearing.

The two of them, they’re good friends (maybe) who work together, and laugh a lot when they do. And that’s it.

Jules sticks his head through the door, and Nico looks up, realising too late that he’s scowling something awful, and Jules looks away quickly, and when he starts speaking it’s to Paul, as if Nico isn’t there. It makes Nico scowl even more.

“I am finished out there, is it ok if I go now?”

“Sure, sure, we’ll see you tomorrow then.”

There he goes again, putting people at ease without doing _anything_ , because Jules smiles and vanishes once more.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

Nico smiles (grimaces). “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“Sure? You can tell me if something’s up, you know.”

_Ha, yeah right…_ “Sure.”

Paul nods slowly, not even slightly convinced.

“You wouldn’t be able to help anyway,” Nico blurts out, because he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, or like he’s spurning the offer, _and what did he just go and say that for?!_

Paul is completely oblivious to Nico’s internal panic. “Well if you ever want to just hang out or something. I won’t interrogate you, I promise. In fact,” he says, leaning against the stove and folding his arms, “d’ya want to come round tomorrow night maybe? Turns out I’ve got one of those movies you said you still haven’t seen.”

No, that’s a stupid idea, the worst idea ever, to spend a whole night with him with no work to run off to and, “Yeah, sure, that sounds good.” _Oh god he’s hopeless._

Thankfully though that’s the last plate into the dishwasher, and there’s nothing else Nico can stay to help with really, so he’s said goodbye and is out the door ludicrously quickly, pleading tiredness for not sticking around longer. And it’s only when he’s halfway down the street that he realises he’s left his jacket behind. But no, he’s not going back to get it – he’s had quite enough of making a twit out of himself for one night, thank you very much.


	45. Chapter 45

_Tap-tap-tap._

The knock is quiet, as if the person knocking isn’t sure that they should be. Which is fair enough at this time of night. But even a quiet knock is enough to disturb the puppy, and any illusion that everything behind the door is peace and quiet is shattered with excited yapping and the sounds of Timo trying to not trip over the puppy as it bounds around his knees and entwines itself with his ankles, whilst he tries simultaneously to both calm the puppy and call to the person at the door that he’s on his way. A moment later there’s scratching at the wood of the door and the sounds of the lock unclicking.

As the door opens the puppy shoots through the gap, Timo not fast enough in grabbing its collar, but Nico has scooped it up into the air before it can get any further and is promptly nuzzling at its nose.

“What have we said about running away, you?” Nico asks it, giving it a gentle mid-air shake. The puppy answers with a single _yip_ and then starts lapping eagerly at Nico’s face. Timo laughs at Nico’s disgusted expression and the way the puppy is now held at arm’s length, before he finds it being shoved back into his arms, still wriggling excitedly.

“I’m not going to ask what you’re doing here at this time of night,” Timo says, now cradling the puppy and letting his unexpected guest in past him, “instead I’m just going to skip straight to _coffee, beer, or vodka_?” Timo shuts the door behind Nico, who is wiping the drool off his face with a sleeve stretched over his hand.

Nico mumbles something that sounds like _beer_ and drops into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his chin onto his hands. Seconds later the puppy is bouncing at his ankles and tugging at his trousers, and he half-heartedly tries to shoo it away with a slow push of a kick whilst Timo is clinking bottles at the fridge.

“So,” Timo says, opening the pair of bottles with a hiss and pushing one across the table to Nico, “you know I’m always happy to see you, but it’s almost one a.m. …”

Timo doesn’t get an answer. Instead Nico shrugs, and drinks what seems to be about half his beer in one.

“Oh god, you’ve fallen for that Scottish chef of yours, haven’t you?”

Nico splutters and coughs on the last swallow of his beer, and Timo has to thump him on the back before he can answer.

“How…?!”

“This is exactly what happened last time, remember?” Timo says, leaning forward on folded arms on the table with the patient look of someone who has seen this all before. “Except last time the moment you’d downed your entire drink you started ranting about how short Rubens was, and I reminded you that he’s taller than me, and you said that that wasn’t the point because…” Timo stops talking when Nico glowers at him, but he doesn’t stop smiling knowingly. “What is it with you and the steady, friendly colleagues who tease you more than you like? Though at least this one’s taller, and younger, so in theory you’ll have less to complain about…”

Nico keeps glaring. “If there was any chance of anything happening…”

“You said that about Rubens,” Timo points out.

“That was because of the age thing. Paul just isn’t interested…”

“And you know that how?”

“He just isn’t. I can tell.”

“Just being friendly, hm? You said _that_ about Rubens too.”

“Will you stop making this about him, please?”

Nico looks more than uncomfortable at the continual mentions of the person he still barely acknowledges he was ever involved with, even to the few people who had known (a grand total of Timo, Lucas, Bruno, and Felipe). Not that he had done at the time either – the two of them had kept it so quiet that it was too easy to forget how much it had meant to the both of them. Or how hard it had been when Rubens had had to leave town.

“Sorry,” Timo apologises. “But the point still stands. And anyway, I thought you said Paul was, _about as interesting as an electric gate repair manual_?”

Nico half scowls, half smiles, as if he can’t decide which emotion wins out. “I think I just needed to get to know him better…” Timo starts to chuckle at the innuendo, and receives another withering glare. “You’re not helping.”

“You didn’t ask for help. Though it’s not like you’d accept it anyway, so it’s a good thing that I find your ranting hilarious…”

“Timo?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and get me another beer.”

Timo laughs, and gives Nico a reassuring rub on the shoulder as he heads towards the fridge.

“Rant away,” he says, putting an entire pack of bottles on the table in front of them, “and you’re welcome to the sofa tonight too.”

Nico smiles gruffly, and pops the cap on the next bottle, promptly launching into a tirade about the idiot he’d made of himself that evening at the restaurant, and Timo leans back in his chair to listen, laugh, and console, scratching at the puppy’s head and sipping at his own drink.

*

Movie night at Paul’s turns out to be a remarkably uneventful evening, despite Timo having nearly managed to convince Nico that Paul had practically been asking him out – though in the cold light of day (and the painful light of a hangover and a night spent on a sofa designed, in Nico’s opinion, for midgets) that idea now seemed completely absurd. They sit at opposite ends of the sofa and watch the newest Pirates of the Caribbean (agreeing that it’s fun, but not as good as the first one), and Nico sticks to the soft drinks all evening, much to Paul’s surprise. But Nico sure as hell isn’t going to tell Paul that he’s worried about what he might say or do if he adds alcohol to an evening in with the object of his (pathetic) affection. Or that he doesn’t really feel like drinking again _quite_ yet because he was up until god-knows-when the night before drinking far too much and venting copiously to his best friend about his stupid crush… (Though on the plus side, said venting seems to have helped him get less horrifically tongue-tied around Paul, if nothing else.)

Nico isn’t sure if he’s utterly relieved or expectedly disappointed when he leaves Paul’s flat at midnight with precisely nothing having happened between them other than the usual fits of laughter and a goodnight hug (and maybe Nico had managed to watch Paul out of the corner of his eye for about as much time as he’d spent actually concentrating on the film). He decides to go with relieved though, because that’s certainly easier to deal with – they get on pretty well, and they work together, and that’s fine. That’s really fine.


	46. Chapter 46

For the sake of tact, Sergio has spent the last few weeks getting lunch from the MTCanteen, rather from Café Ferrari like before. It was only been meant to be a temporary change (he still had that apprenticeship lined up, so he couldn’t stay away forever), but even though it was a little bit further away from the shop he wasn’t really complaining – Lewis’ wraps and paninis were delicious, and as for Jenson’s cakes… it made him wonder why he’d never been there before. Although eating banoffee pie on a bench with a tiny takeaway spoon wasn’t the easiest of tasks…

The canteen is on the other side of town from the café, and just around the corner from the train station, opposite which is a tiny shady square, not much more than just a widened pavement with a couple of benches in the dappled shade of the few trees, which overhang a little fountain that tinkles in the midday heat. It’s a perfect spot to watch people come and go on the street through the lunch hour, rushing into the station to catch trains, or coming out in gaggles of friends with plenty to say after however long an absence they’ve endured, or tourists and visitors lingering on to look for taxis or to figure out where they go now.

Sergio is sitting on one of the benches, throwing the last crumbs of his panini to the little birds that titter in the branches and flutter down to hop across the square in front of him, and enjoying the warmth of the outside air rather than the enforced cool of the chocolate shop, when he looks up to see what appears to be a backpacker standing outside the station, staring at a piece of paper and looking more than a little lost. He’s slim, with brown hair that sweeps across his forehead and flicks out at the sides, a huge rucksack slung on one shoulder, and there’s the glint of something gold around his neck, where his white shirt collar is open a button further down than most people’s would be.

“Excuse me?” he asks as he crosses the road, pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head to reveal chocolate brown eyes, “can you help me?”

“I can try,” Sergio answers, and the newcomer slides his rucksack off his shoulder and onto the bench, before taking a seat next to him. “What is it?”

“I need to get to here,” he gestures to a point on his printed map that isn’t far at all from Chocolats de Sauber.

“That’s about ten minutes from here…” Sergio looks up. “I’m actually going in that direction, I can walk you there if you want?”

“Are you sure?” Sergio smiles in reply and tilts his head to one side in a sort-of nod, and his companion meets his eyes and smiles back, boyish and grateful. “Thank you, that would be really helpful. This is my first time in town, and that’s my new flat.”

The accent is familiar, _incredibly_ familiar.

“No problem at all,” Sergio says. “But, can I just ask, where are you from…?”

“I’m from Mexico,” he answers, as he starts to haul his rucksack on again, jumping slightly to settle the weight more evenly onto the shoulder straps.

“I thought so,” Sergio grins and stands up. “Me too. The only one in town.”

“Really? That’s lucky!” The young man holds out his hand. “I’m Esteban.”

Sergio takes it, receiving a slightly off-balance shake as the rucksack messes with his companion’s centre of gravity. “Checo,” he replies. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles, and glances back at the map. “So, where’s home for you?” he asks, dropping into Spanish as they set off down the street together.

*

By the time they arrive at the address - a modern block of flats that looks a little like student accommodation - they’ve shared every memory of their home country that they can recall, Sergio talking about how different Fia can be from what they both grew up with, and about all the things he misses, with Esteban reminding him of things he hadn’t even realised he’d forgotten.

“This is it then,” Sergio says, checking the address against the name of the building.

“Thank you. It really was great to meet you. Maybe I’ll run into you again sometime…”

There’s half a second pause, before Sergio frowns and taps at his pockets, as if he’s looking for something he’s forgotten.

“Do you have a pen?” he asks. Esteban reaches around awkwardly behind him to pull a black marker from the outside of his rucksack, and passes it across. “Just, if you need anything,” Sergio says, scrawling a string of numbers on the back of the map, “just call me. It’s always good to know someone in this place…”

Esteban smiles almost shyly as he takes the paper, and tucks it carefully into his pocket. “Thank you. Again.”

Sergio shrugs. “Hopefully I’ll see you around then?”

Esteban smiles again. “Definitely,” he says, and taps his pocket.

*

It’s not time to open the shop quite yet, and Kamui and Checo are in the storeroom, checking stock and gathering up what they need to fill the gaps in the shelves, chatting and laughing together as they always do.

“Boys!” Monisha’s voice comes from the front of the shop. “Can you spare me a moment?” She appears in the storeroom doorway, and leans against the frame as they’re picking up piles of boxes of chocolates. “Come on out front, will you? Because I’ve been thinking, and I figured that since we’ve been doing so well recently,” with their arms full they follow Monisha into the front of the shop, before depositing their boxes on the counter, “that it’s about time we took someone else on. So as of today we’ve got a new trainee joining us. I’d like you to meet…”

“Esteban!” Sergio exclaims. Because standing next to the counter, looking slightly shy but still smiling, is the brown haired boy from the station, who grins brightly when he recognises Checo.

Monisha looks curiously between her two employees. “Yes, it is… you two know each other?”

“Only from yesterday,” Esteban says, glancing back to Monisha and then to the other employee. “And you must be Kamui?” He shakes hands friendlily with his other new colleague, but his gaze returns almost immediately to Sergio, and he swipes his fringe out of his eyes.

“In which case, Sergio, I leave Esteban in your capable hands. If you could let him shadow you this morning, and we’ll see how you get on. I’m expecting good things; your references were excellent. Best of luck then boys.” Monisha smiles knowingly and slips out to the back office – something tells her that she really doesn’t need to worry about the new addition not fitting into the team…

“You didn’t tell me you’d be working here!” Sergio says.

“You didn’t tell me you worked here either. So I guess I don’t need this anymore then?” He smiles coyly and pulls something out of his shirt pocket, which Sergio recognises as the map with his phone number on.

“I think you should keep that,” Sergio replies, mirroring the smile. “Just in case.”

“Hm, I will need someone to show me around town, won’t I…?”


	47. Chapter 47

“Are you ready for this?” Rob asks, coming out of the kitchen and wiping his hands on a cloth, watching as Felipe lines up bottles of alcohol he wasn’t even aware they _owned_ on the sideboard.

“Are _you_?” Felipe grins, looking up.

Rob rolls his eyes. “Am I in for a long night keeping you lot all in line then?”

“Is not just my friends tonight.”

“It’s _mostly_ your friends. It’s just Andrea and a coupl’a lads from the factory on my side… I didn’t know quite how much of the town you knew. Or that you told them they could bring plus-ones. Or twos. Or threes…”

Felipe just keeps grinning. “Many of my friends are your friends too now, you said that. And bigger parties are better, no?”

Rob just shakes his head fondly. “Well, no matter how hungover you are, you’re helping me clean up in the morning.”

Felipe’s grin gets even bigger, much to Rob’s initial confusion. “Morning?” he beams wickedly. “Afternoon, for sure. Or it was not a good enough party, and we will have to have another!”

Rob starts to wonder what he’s got himself in for…

*

The doorbell rings and the first arrival is Bruno, beaming like he always does, with a bottle of _Cachaça_ in one hand and vodka in the other, and with Vitaly in tow, whose eyes are slightly wide and nervous-looking. Felipe embraces Bruno, and Rob shakes hands with Vitaly, pointing them both in the direction of the rest of the alcohol, and offering glasses, mixers, snacks, and seats like a textbook host. Felipe and Bruno just throw themselves down onto the sofa though, jabbering away in Portuguese almost immediately, whilst Vitaly trails after Rob, Rob talking easily despite the guest’s slightly awkward replies, until Vitaly looks a little less shy, and they gather up a handful of glasses and join the Brazilians in the middle of the living room to crack open the bottles.

Next at the door is Mark. “Eyup mate,” he greets Rob, who struggles to return the solid handshake whilst simultaneously being handed a pair of crates of beer, but somehow manages a one-handed balancing act that stops either pack falling on the floor. The beers soon end up on the sideboard, Rob chucking Mark a bottle opener from the kitchen, and then they’ve taken up the other sofa and are clinking bottles in a toast.

Then it’s Jenson, “without Nico,” he informs Rob with a sad shrug, offering across his bottles of chocolate and vanilla liqueurs, “though he might be along later…” And then it’s Fernando (with two bottles of red wine), who promptly joins Mark at the sideboard, where he’s now cracking open another beer for him and Jenson. Fernando slides his arm around Mark’s waist and his hand into the taller man’s back pocket, the gesture completely ignored as Mark keeps talking to Jenson as if nothing had changed, and Fernando just joins the conversation without even a _hello_. Rob smiles – they’re as easy around each other as he and Felipe are, even if they’re nowhere near as public…

Lucas arrives not long after, and Felipe practically vaults over the back of the sofa to hug him when Rob announces who it is.

“You are still alive!” Felipe exclaims with mock surprise, flinging his arms wide.

“And you are still short!” Lucas bats back, grinning. Felipe tries to scowl but Lucas gives him another hug, apologising sincerely for never being around these days, and Felipe decides that this time, he’ll let the comment slide.

It’s Felipe’s turn to answer when the doorbell goes again, this time announcing Sebastian’s arrival, who gives his fellow midfielder a characteristically cheery smile, along with _another_ bottle for the table and a whole pack of cans of energy drink.

“So who else is here?” he asks, as he’s let past and into the living room, and Felipe can’t help but notice the way he perks up when the list of arrivals reaches Jenson’s name, and even more so when the end of the list comes around without Nico’s name being mentioned. So he’s not surprised at all when Sebastian heads straight over to where Jenson is stood, his intent to monopolise Jenson’s attention so obvious that Fernando and Mark actually start talking just to each other properly for the first time that evening.

“Sebastian!” Jenson grins, giving his obvious (to everyone else, at least) admirer a series of rapid punches on the arm, leaving Seb rubbing at it and trying to look unimpressed (and failing…). “I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

“Not since the Forum,” Seb says, leaning (what he hopes is) casually up against the sideboard next to the object of his affection.

“Very true. That was an insane night…” Then Jenson raises his eyebrows and looks down at Seb with an amused smile. “How was the hangover in the morning?” he chuckles, giving Seb a look that says _pretty damn awful, I expect?_ Seb just grimaces, and Jenson bursts out laughing. “I guessed as much!”

“Were you the same?” Seb counters. “Is that why we haven’t seen you at the bar in ages?”

“I was fine, thank you,” Jenson replies with a laugh, but then he shakes his head a little defeatedly. “And no, it’s just that Nico’s been so busy recently that we haven’t had the time to go out.”

Sebastian shouldn’t feel even slightly glad about that, he knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it where Jenson’s concerned. “You _can_ come without him,” he says, remembering his first year at the bar, when Jenson had been working at Brawn’s and had made the Red Bull the location of his regular-as-clockwork, weekly post-work drink, on the same night that he and Nico now went out together. “You always used to before.”

“That, Seb, was a very long time ago,” Jenson chides. “And wasn’t really the same either… I was single back then, to start with.”

“I’m sure we could keep you company if you decided to come back by yourself,” Seb says, grinning widely, but unsure if he actually wants Jenson to hear the double meaning he’s not even sure if he put there on purpose…

“I’m sure you could!” Jenson laughs, with a smile that’s _practically_ a wink.

_Tonight,_ Seb resolves to himself, sipping his drink to avoid having to give an immediate reply. _Tonight I tell him._ Well, when they’ve both had a couple more drinks anyway…

*

The house is filling rapidly, the dining table, coffee table, and sideboards all groaning with bottles, cans, and glasses, and almost every room is becoming more and more packed. Everyone is thankful that it’s not as hot a night as they’ve had recently, because the apartment is warming up fast, the spare bedroom full of jackets and jumpers, and every window and door thrown wide to let the cool evening air in. Rob has put something inoffensive on the stereo, and wonders how long that will last until someone decides that their music taste takes priority and starts rummaging through the CD collection or plugging in mp3 players, but all that’s happening so far is that people keep turning the volume up to compete with the ever-increasing noise of chatter and laughter that’s spilling into the corridor outside and the street below.

Kimi must have just materialised inside the apartment at one end of the sofa, with a bottle of Finland’s finest balanced on the armrest and a shot glass in hand, because no one’s really sure when he turned up – he certainly didn’t ring the doorbell, and no one remembers letting him in… Felipe drops into the space next to him, lounging back and putting his feet on the coffee table, and Rob watches an almost miraculous occurrence – the Iceman ignores his reputation and starts to chat away, a smile slowly breaking across his face, until the old colleagues are laughing and grinning together. Rob wonders if he should snap a photo of this, because no one will believe him otherwise…

Pastor is here now too, hanging around in the corner and looking more than a little out of place, and whilst he and Felipe are pretty good friends Rob doesn’t reckon that he’ll be sticking around for long tonight. This type of event doesn’t really seem like his thing.

Paul turns up next, by himself, but when Jenson sees him (or rather, him and the bottle of proper Scottish whisky he’s carrying) he finds that suddenly he’s got plenty of friends, as Jenson throws his arms wide and insists that Paul joins him in the kitchen with Rob and Mark (who has left Fernando making polite conversation in Spanish with Pastor in the living room, whilst Sebastian has joined Kimi on the sofa).

“I haven’t had that stuff in _years_ ,” Jenson says, examining the bottle. “Not bad, not bad at all…” he continues, before opening it and pouring all four of them a generous measure. “Drink up Rob,” he adds, “Felipe is _far_ ahead of you!”

“ _Someone_ has to be the sensible one,” Rob answers, raising an eyebrow and taking the least full of the glasses from the counter.

“It’s your party, mate,” Mark says, taking the bottle out of Jenson’s hands and topping up Rob’s glass before he can even get it to his mouth to take a first sip, “so it doesn’t have to be you.”

Rob sighs exaggeratedly, rolls his eyes, and then swigs his drink back in one, Jenson clapping him on the back as he clanks his glass back down onto the counter.

In the living room Vitaly and Bruno are having a playful argument over vodka, where Bruno is trying to make cocktails, and Vitaly is hugging the bottle with a look of horror on his face that Bruno is doing anything other than drink his precious vodka straight. Bruno pleads, his eyes wide and laughing, and Vitaly is wavering, and wavering, and then sighs and hands the bottle back, and Bruno grins gleefully, pressing a little kiss to his cheek and uncorking the bottle. When Vitaly looks up again, blushing, he sees Kimi beside them, holding a bottle of Finnish vodka and now _two_ shot glasses, his head tilted slightly to one side in an unspoken question. Vitaly smiles, Bruno elbows him and laughs, and the two vodka drinkers take a seat at the dining table, before Felipe, quite tipsy already, throws his arms around Bruno’s waist, almost spilling the new cocktails all over the sideboard, but Lucas leans over just in time and plucks both glasses out of Bruno’s hands, taking a huge gulp out of both before Bruno can extricate himself from a clingy Felipe and grab his own glass back with a mock glare and a defiant swig.

Timo and Nico arrive together, Timo with a couple of bottles of German white wine, cheerfully reminding Rob that he knows Felipe from football, and Nico with an armful of German beers, hanging behind slightly and smiling gruffly. Then they spot the vodka drinkers and join them at the dining table, Nico sliding into the seat next to his old friend Vitaly, and they’re soon reminiscing about their days back at the language school and regretting how much they’ve let their friendship slip, whilst Timo uncorks his wine bottle and pours himself a glass (offering some to everyone else, though he knows he’ll be refused – the quieter pair aren’t going to move away from straight vodka anytime soon tonight, and Nico’s happy mixing his). Soon all four of them are holding a proper, if slightly fragmented conversation, like a typical Wednesday night at Marussia (just minus Heikki’s cheerful talking). Then Paul spots his colleague and slides into the last remaining seat at the table, slinging a friendly arm around Nico’s shoulder and chinking his whisky glass against Nico’s, and Timo gives Nico a look, to which Nico tries to kick his shin under the table, misses, and catches Kimi instead. The Iceman swears, glares around the table, and then _understands_ , smiling an almost imperceptible knowing smile and pushing two shot glasses in the direction of Paul and Nico (who still has Paul’s arm around his shoulder…).

Mark had been back in the living room with Fernando, but now he’s rejoined Jenson and Rob in the kitchen, fed up of Fernando and Sebastian’s conversation (argument) about every, _single_ , detail of the last European Cup, whilst Felipe, Bruno, and Lucas are all together on the sofa talking (at a volume that most certainly isn’t coincidentally loud) about _Robinho, Kaka, Ronaldhino, Ronaldo,_ and (of course) _Pele_. So the three of them crack open a handful of beers and drink to being perennially _rubbish_ at international football, or not even caring that much in the first place. But then Rob launches into talk of the Premier League, and Mark and Jenson can only look despairingly at each other…

The doorbell goes again, a constant stream of rings, and Rob leaves the kitchen to push through the groups of people to the front door, finding Rubens and Tony on the doorstep, grinning madly and brandishing bottles.

He has barely finished hugging both men before there’s a cry of “Rubinhooooo!!” and Felipe barrels into the back of them, flinging his arms around them all.

“How much has he had?!” Rubens laughs, and Rob just shrugs.

“After last time, you think he’d be holding back a bit,” Rob chuckles, and Felipe stretches up to smack at the back of Rob’s head.

“Do not talk about me in the third person, I am right here!” he pouts. “And I am not drunk, I am just happy… Although perhaps a _little_ bit tipsy…”

Rob takes the bottle of rum out of Felipe’s hands and swigs it, then holding it up out of his reach whilst Rubens and Tony collapse with laughter as Felipe tries (and fails) to literally _climb up_ Rob to retrieve the bottle.

“I’ll give you that back if you make a round of Caipirinhas,” Rob says, giving in to those puppy-dog eyes and handing it back. “So you can’t drink it all now!” he adds, as Felipe darts away and immediately goes back to glugging straight from the bottle…

*

It seems that Felipe really has invited the entire town to the party. Or rather, he’s invited _almost_ the entire town, and they’ve invited everyone else – friends, colleagues, friends of friends, acquaintances, plus ones, hangers-on, and not to mention what appears to be the _entire_ football club…

“No, it _is_ the entire club,” Jerome informs a mystified Rob, when he opens the door not only to Jerome, but his colleague Romain as well. Jerome then explains that Felipe had simply climbed onto a bench after practice on Monday and yelled something along the lines of _“Party at my house, bring your friends!”_ to the whole team… That does explain too the arrival of relative strangers Daniel and Jean-Eric, who Rob certainly doesn’t know well enough to call friends (or even really acquaintances), and he’s never really heard Felipe mention them much either. At least they’re all bringing their own alcohol, although there’s now so much lined up on the sideboard that Rob’s starting to wonder if technically they need a license for this much booze…

By the time Jules and Charles turn up together, both looking rather shy, Rob has given up caring and just welcomes them in as cheerily as he has everyone else, pointing them in the direction of the other French boys (and Dan, who’s standing slightly off to the edge of that group and just talking to Jean-Eric, who’s pretty much ignoring the rest of his friends to just talk to Dan…). The younger pair soon have generous glasses of French red in their hands, whilst Dan then escapes to find Mark, to join a conversation in a language he understands. Rob just chuckles at Charles and Jules, and wonders if he was that starry-eyed when he was younger, or, more importantly, if Felipe was. And even more importantly, how many more people he barely knows will be turning up tonight?!

The doorbell rings again, and Rob opens it at last to familiar faces - Andrea and Giuliano from the factory - and he can’t deny he’s at least a bit relieved to see people that he’s actually invited himself. The three of them escape to a quieter corner of the room and Rob opens a couple of bottles of proper British beer that he’d kept out of the way of the other drinkers. His friends appreciate the sentiment, even if they don’t appreciate the drink itself so much, but it isn’t long before the quiet corner of the room isn’t quiet anymore, with Rob’s relaxed laugh cutting through the clamour of conversation in the apartment.

The doorbell goes again. “Your turn, ‘Lipe!” Rob calls. “I’m busy now!” and Giuliano clinks at the bottom of Rob’s bottle, a challenge to down it in one; a challenge Rob certainly isn’t going to refuse. Felipe opens the door to Jaime, who’s barely through the door before he’s mixing and mingling like a pro, one moment sneaking up beside Mark, joining the conversation in a way that’s remarkably reminiscent of Fernando, and standing much closer than most people are allowed (and _boy_ doesn’t Fernando glare at that, and Felipe is certain that Jaime heard _exactly_ whatever Spanish curse Fernando just muttered, and Jenson raises an eyebrow and resolves to grill Mark later that night on Jaime’s friendliness), the next bumping his hip into Seb and muttering something into his ear that makes Seb glare and blush comically, and then he’s chattering with Nico and Vitaly about the language school, and then (having made a detour past the stereo to plug in his iPod and fill the flat with his very own brand of chill-out house music) he’s laughing with Charles and Jules, who look somehow so much younger than him, and then Rubens has slung an arm around his shoulder and he sinks onto the sofa with the older Brazilians, and of all the odd groups in the room, Jaime, Rubens, and Tony is by far the strangest, but definitely the most friendly.

When Michael arrives, he’s carrying a case of champagne (and another bottle in the other hand, making seven), because he’s Michael, and he can do that without seeming like a pretentious twit. Although Rubens still thinks he is one, and tells Tony as much, as the two older Brazilians crack open some beers (because Indy isn’t as pretentious as Fia) and give him a damn good ignoring.

“It’s a celebration, after all,” Michael explains, and Felipe grins at the size of the bottles, and before long the room is full of the popping of corks and the yelps of people who have spilt the fizzy liquid down their fronts, and down each other, or over the floor, whilst people pass the bottles around and pour it into mismatching wine glasses, used tumblers, and even mugs, and really? someone’s using a _bowl_ for _champagne??_

When Rob comes back from the kitchen, armed with paper towels and cloths to clear up at least some of the split champagne he finds Felipe lounging on the sofa with Michael’s arm around his shoulder, and he’s not jealous really, not at all… But Rubens, ever attentive, pulls Rob off to one side and tells him that whilst he doesn’t like Michael one jot (and Rob knows that full well), Rob has nothing to worry about with Michael and Felipe, even if the little Brazilian is almost sprawling on top of the taller German now… But then Seb plops into the other seat, and Michael ruffles his hair, and Rob can see that (thank god) Rubens was right, and Rubens gives him a little _I told you so_ of a look, and then there’s Jenson, coming to find Rob to ask him where Paul and the scotch went, and, “Rubens, my man!” Jenson gives his old colleague a double-handed handshake, which turns into an enthusiastic hug. “It’s been _too_ long!” and Rob gives up and joins Mark in the kitchen again, because he _really_ needs another drink right now…

“Jenson! Yes it has.”

“Mark!” Jenson waves to his friend in the kitchen, and has Mark’s attention immediately, despite the crowds and the fact that he’s in the process of pouring a _large_ drink for a slightly frazzled-looking Rob. “Two for us!” Mark passes a couple of bottles along a makeshift chain of people (although it takes decidedly more than just two beers to be passed along before two actually reach their destination without going AWOL along the way…).

“I, have _missed you_ ,” Jenson says, slinging his arm around Rubens’ shoulders, who laughs a little awkwardly and pulls away slightly – he always found Jenson’s unrelenting touchy-feely-ness to be a little over the top, worse at times than even Felipe. But they were great friends, and they’re soon chatting away, a year of absence giving them both plenty to talk about.

When Felipe looks around for his old friend, having left Michael and Sebastian catching up, he finds Rubens and Jenson still together, Jenson’s arm still around Rubens’ shoulder, but now they’re by the stereo, having dug out one of Rob’s Queen CDs to replace Jaime’s dance music, and are now singing _very_ loudly indeed and rather off-key to “We Are The Champions”, Jenson attempting to play air guitar without spilling his drink down them both, Rubens nodding and swaying his head as they almost bop together.

“What’s so funny?” Rob appears behind Felipe and leans down to speak straight into his ear, feeling decidedly more relaxed after three of Mark’s stronger cocktails… Felipe nods towards the two men at the stereo, and Rob just shakes his head. “Nutters, both of them,” he says, and tucks his arm around Felipe’s waist. “Now stop staring at other Englishmen, especially ones as gorgeous as Jenson, or I’ll start getting jealous,” he teases.

“Gorgeous?” Felipe replies, tilting his head back to look up at Rob as he leans against his chest. “Maybe I should be the one getting jealous?”

“After I had to see you lounging on top of Michael like that, hm?” Felipe makes a face, and Rob just chuckles. “But no,” he says, turning Felipe around and pulling him right close. “No one but you. No one ever but you.”

Felipe just grins, and stretches up onto his tiptoes to touch their noses together. “That sounds good to me.”

*

Lewis isn’t sure if he should turn up tonight, especially as Nico texted to say that he wouldn’t be there until later, but he’s not usually one to turn down a party, no matter who the host may be. From what he can hear whilst loitering outside the apartment door everything sounds to be in full swing, so he lets himself in without knocking (it doesn’t sound like there would be much point in trying really).

The first thing he sees when he opens the door is Rob and Felipe, kissing like the first act in a bad porn film.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” he exclaims, to no one in particular. “Those two are _disgusting._ ”

*

Nico’s phone buzzes in his back pocket whilst he’s clearing up the restaurant.

_[[I think I’ll stay in tonight. I don’t feel much like partying. Lew]]_

_That’s odd,_ he thought Lewis would have been there by now…

_[[Your loss!]]_ he texts back.

_[[Missing a night of watching Rob and Felipe make out in public? I’m sure I’ll survive…]]_

*

By the time the doorbell goes again, Rob and Felipe have vanished somewhere, so Jenson puts himself in charge of meeting and greeting – he’s well aware that someone like Rubens would be far more suitable for the job, but all the more appropriate people are busy socialising, and sometimes Jenson just likes to take a step back and watch what’s going on – he’s had plenty of quiet evenings in the Red Bull to appreciate the joys of people-watching.

“I’m pretty sure I came to _Felipe’s_ house,” David says with a wry grin, when the door opens to reveal a temporarily surprised Englishman rather than the expected bouncing Brazilian barista. Jenson beams and embraces him with customary gusto. And then notices who’s stood next to him.

“Er, hi?” Jake says, looking decidedly awkward.

“I’ll just go put this in the kitchen…” David says, waving his bottle of vintage Glenfiddich and starting to sidle past them both. “See you in there!” and he vanishes into the flat, shutting the door behind him and leaving Jake and Jenson in the corridor.

“I think we need to have a quick chat…” Jenson suggests, as Jake shuffles awkwardly.

“Yeah I think we do…”

*

About five minutes later they reappear through the front door together, acting like they’ve been friends for years.

“So we’re okay?” Jake says, looking momentarily nervous again as they make their way across the room.

“We’re fine,” Jenson replies. “On both counts. _What happens on the Red Button stays on the Red Button,_ isn’t that the tagline? You should know, it’s your job! Although on the _second_ thing, I guess I should be offended that it was you who told me, rather than David?”

Jake just smiles back. “You can’t really blame him - he didn’t really get chance tonight, now did he?”

“He’s a coward for running off like that,” Jenson winks, knowing full well that David can hear them now. “So, when _were_ you going to tell me?” Jenson asks him directly, pulling a glass apparently out of thin air and holding it in front of David to fill.

“Tell him what?” Mark asks, leaning in to join the conversation.

“David’s off the market,” Jenson says, raising his eyebrows and sipping his drink, and trying not to look too smug that he’s the first one with that news.

“Congratulations mate,” Mark says, shaking his hand. “Who’s the lucky man?” Jake blushes like only Jake can, and looks so obviously bashful that even Mark notices almost straight away. “You do realise Jenson’s still gonna flirt with you both?” he says to Jake as he shakes his hand as well.

“I’ve warned him,” David says, in a resigned tone.

“I’m not that bad!” Jenson protests.

“Yes you are,” David and Mark reply at the same time.

*

“Alright, who put _that_ on?!” David demands, disturbed from his relatively quiet drink in the kitchen with Mark by an abrupt change of music, from Queen’s greatest hits to something even more overplayed… “Jenson, I should’ve known it was you. Which moron left _you_ in charge of the stereo?!”

Jenson says nothing, too busy laughing with Jake at David’s unimpressed expression. An expression which does not become any less impressed when both men start singing along far too enthusiastically as the chorus comes on;

_“And I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more…!”_

“Scotland has produced more than one song y’know!” David yells, not _entirely_ bad-temperedly, and shuts the kitchen door on the off-key refrain, which doesn’t last for much longer before Jake and Jenson have dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.

Luckily for David, the Proclaimers aren’t exactly a popular music choice, and the song hasn’t even finished before Kimi, Vitaly, and the rest of the vodka drinkers have abandoned the dining table to crowd around the stereo, and are busy trying to pick something from Kimi’s iPod that they can all agree on (though they can all agree that almost _anything_ else would be an improvement…). Linkin Park wins out, and for what must be a record third time in one evening, Kimi actually smiles, and with round two won (or is it round one? no one’s counting properly… yet…) they reconvene back at the dining room table.

*

“Why are you laughing?” Vitaly asks, when Kimi chuckles again at something in the main living room that is clearly amusing him.

“Watch,” he says, inclining his head and slightly angling his glass in the air towards where Jenson is standing and chatting to Rob, and currently it’s just the two of them. Then Kimi holds up three fingers, and starts to count down silently. As the final finger falls Sebastian appears beside Jenson, smiling brightly and hanging on every word he says. Kimi and Vitaly continue to watch as the group grows, and then Jenson moves on to another group, apparently with some new gossip he’s desperate to share. The original group starts to dwindle, and then, “There,” Sebastian is back next to Jenson, laughing away. “All night,” Kimi explains, and Vitaly can’t help but laugh, immediately leaning over to get Bruno’s attention and tell him what he’s just been shown (because he tells Bruno _everything_ ), and Bruno whispers it to Lucas, who laughs out loud.

“Really? Have you only just noticed?” Rubens laughs disbelievingly when he hears his friends giggling about it. “It’s been going on for _years_! Even Tony knows!” and Rubens’ friend nods in agreement.

*

Seb looks around when he hears everyone gathered at the dining table laughing, and he’s convinced that he’s most definitely paranoid, but it does seem like they were all looking at him, yes they definitely are, but hang on, never mind that, where’s Jenson gone again…? He takes another swig of his beer and reminds himself that tonight he is _not_ going to miss his chance.

*

The rock music might have been acceptable to most people, but just when everyone is settled in to having that in the background, the Brazilians commandeer the stereo, Felipe yelling something that sounds like _“Rob’s stereo is my stereo, so I get to pick!”_ and soon all five of them are singing enthusiastically along to the chorus of _Ai Se Eu Te Pego_ , with Felipe dancing on the table – he’s the only one of the group who’s short enough to do that without banging his head on the ceiling…

As the music gets louder those who want to talk flee the living room, retreating to the kitchen or even escaping to the corridor. Kimi and Rob end up on the balcony, the sliding door shut behind them to muffle the commotion within the flat. Below them the town is quiet and dark, the stars obscured by the light spilling through the glass around them, and together they share an ashtray and lean on the railing in the quiet, first chuckling at the expense of the guests inside, and eventually finding themselves comparing stories about Felipe, and discovering that they have far more in common than either of them ever realised.

*

“I,” Jenson says, quiet enough not to be overheard, but loud enough that Mark can hear him over the sounds of whatever Brazilian pop-song Felipe has chosen now, “thought you said you didn’t like ‘young, upstart DJs’?” He gives a small backwards nod in Jaime’s direction.

Mark looks straight back at Jenson, who’s looking as close to serious as he ever gets when there’s gossip to be discovered. That and i>determined, and Mark knows that if Jenson doesn’t get an answer now that he believes (and he’s annoyingly good at telling when people are lying to him, even ever-deadpan Mark) he’ll be on his case until he does.

He quirks an eyebrow, and looks away. “Actually, mate, I said I didn’t like _cute_ , young, upstart _ex_ -DJs.” Jenson grins his most vindicated smile, and somehow manages to restrain himself from crowing audibly.

“So it appears,” Jenson says, trying to sound nonchalant, “that you have a type.”

Mark frowns back. “I do _not_ have a type.”

“Yes you do. Spaniards.”

“That’s not really a type…”

“Alright then; suave, dark-haired, slightly alternative Spaniards. Better?”

Mark sniffs a laugh. “You forgot over-confident, Twitter-obsessed, and with ridiculous hair,” he adds, still looking into the middle distance.

Jenson chuckles and shakes his head. “Does Fernando know?“

"It was last year, Jens…”

Jenson almost chokes on his drink. “Last year?! You keep your cards far too close to your chest! All these years I’ve known you, and I never would’ve suspected you and Jaime had had a thing…”

“Not everyone is as public as you Jens. You’d have nothing to gossip about if we were.”

Jenson bursts out laughing again. “But how am I meant to make fun of you if you don’t even give me a clue about these things?”

“Exactly mate,” and Mark finally meets his eyes just to give him a _look_.

“No fun, no fun at all.” Jenson gives another over-the-top sigh, before frowning and staring across the room. “Hang on though, talking of gossip, who’s that over there?”

“No idea mate,” Mark says, not even bothering to look. “Finding out these things is your job.”

“Yes, yes it is,” Jenson says. “I’ll be right back…”

*

“Twenty minutes from now. Tops. I mean look at him!” Lucas says. “I can’t believe I never noticed before now.”

“No, no I don’t think he will all night,” Tony answers. “If he’s always like that, what’s different about tonight?”

“He told me he would,” Jaime adds. “He said tonight. And he looked serious. Believe me. Put me down for around one a.m., when he will be drunk enough to dare.”

“That’s insider knowledge!” Felipe contests. “Is that allowed?!”

“Are we really holding a sweepstake on how long it takes before Seb tells Jenson he fancies him?” Bruno laughs, tucking his arm around Vitaly’s waist and watching as Rubens starts typing the times into his phone’s calendar.

“Yep,” Rubens says, looking up. “What time should I put you down for?”

“Half past ten,” Michael says, suddenly leaning over Felipe’s shoulder. “Or fifteen minutes either side, I do not mind.”

“It will cost you,” Felipe says.

Michael shrugs and spreads his hands. “That’s fine. I’m in.”

Rubens’ fingers pause for a moment over the keypad, but Felipe peers over to see what the problem is, so he taps in Michael’s time, and Felipe leans back to argue out the reasoning behind his time with Michael.

The group falls suddenly suspiciously silent as Jenson passes by, heading from the kitchen to the other side of the room, but the object of their betting pool doesn’t seem to notice.

As soon as Jenson is out of earshot again Vitaly pulls out his wallet and hands over the required buy-in. “Eleven thirty,” he says.

*

“You! Hullo! I have _no idea_ who you are!” Jenson laughs in the cheerfully accusatory tone of the comfortably tipsy. “Or when you arrived… But you look like the youngest person here, and you are currently all by yourself. So have one of these,” he tries to hand a beer bottle to the youngster he’s just accosted, “and tell me who you are, so I can introduce you to people! I’m Jenson by the way.”

“I’m Esteban,” Jenson’s new ‘friend’ answers, smiling easily but slightly apprehensively thanks to Jenson’s overenthusiastic niceness, “and I work at Chocolats des Sauber. But it’s ok, I am not here by myself. I am just watching people for now.” Then he raises the bottle of spirits he’s holding into Jenson’s eyeline. “And I have this…”

Jenson stares for a moment at the half-empty bottle, and exhales a short laugh. “Tequila? It doesn’t look like you need any help from me tonight then!” He gives Esteban a half salute and vanishes back into the crowd, followed moments later by the blond-haired German that Esteban recognises as the award winning barman Checo had pointed out to him earlier.

“Is it always like this?” Esteban asks with amusement, when Checo returns with the shot glasses.

Checo looks around, to where Rob has his arm around Felipe’s waist, to where Mark is firing some remark at Sebastian on the fine line between bantering and bickering, to where Nico is filling Paul’s glass with an almost clockwork regularity, to where Bruno is giggling whilst Tony and Rubens tease a blushing Vitaly, to where Jake and David are talking together, their words right against each other’s ears… Checo shrugs. “Pretty much, yes…” he says. “Do you mind it?”

“Not at all!” Esteban answers. “I think I could get used to this place…” They clink glasses and down their shots, and Esteban giggles when Checo gets his slightly wrong and splutters and coughs. “Don’t waste it! I brought this all the way here with me!”

*

“You know, you don’t have to spend the whole night with me…” Paul says when he finds Nico by his side _again_. It’s not like he wants to get rid of him, not at all, but he feels a bit guilty that Nico seems to feel obliged to make sure he’s not by himself at any point. Paul may not have the most friends in town, but he’s perfectly capable of socialising. Especially when there’s a large amount of very nice booze around, which he is quite happily working his way through… “Weren’t you talking to Vitaly and Timo earlier? Aren’t they good enough company?” Paul laughs.

Nico shrugs awkwardly. He had in no way meant to make it obvious that he was following Paul around. But then, if he leaves now not only will he make it obvious that he was following him, but he’ll miss out on what he’s certain is his only opportunity to actually tell him what he thinks, and which comes with the get-out clause of _I’d just drunk too much_ if it all backfires. Not that he’s even certain yet if he’s going to _take_ said opportunity…

“You’re better,” he says, realising he needs to actually _reply_.

“ _Better?_ ” Paul laughs, a teasingly sceptical scoff that makes Nico feel about six inches high for saying something stupid _again_ , and for the ridiculous delighted feeling he gets for just making Paul laugh. “What d’ya mean, _better?_ You can’t really say y’ _know_ me better. And I don’t know you that well either. Y’always get so shy. Though I never really noticed ‘til you pointed it out that time.”

“I _meant_ you’re better _company_.” It comes out sharper than Nico intended, and he winces. Paul doesn’t seem to notice that though, and is still chuckling.

“Now _that_ , that I _don’t_ believe,” Paul teases.

That accent, that Scottish lilt, apparently gets stronger when he’s drinking. And it does funny things to Nico, which leave him incapable of finding a response.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re flustered, you know that?”

“I’m not flustered…” He could probably think of a better comeback if he hadn’t had quite so much vodka and beer tonight himself, to the point where the wall they’re currently leaning against really is rather important to the whole _standing upright_ thing…

“Yes y’are.” Paul laughs, and points at Nico with the rim of his whisky glass. “You’re doing that whole going quiet thing you do again…”

“Wait, wait, _cute?_ ” Paul’s words finally register in Nico’s head.

He laughs again. “And when you’re angry. Which is good, ‘cos you’re far too easy to wind up…”

“Paul?” Nico interrupts.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Nico slides his hand around the back of Paul’s neck and, before he has a chance to resist, kisses him.

About two seconds later Nico realises quite what he’s just done, and his brain short-circuits into _shitshitshitshitshit_ at a million miles an hour, any residual thought processes taken up with wondering how much longer he has of this before he gets punched in the face. Hard.

But the punch doesn’t come, and neither does the horrified pull away. Instead Paul is kissing back, angling himself away from the wall slightly to rest one hand gently on Nico’s waist, and Nico could have sworn that his heart and stomach and other strange bits of internal organs jumped about a foot higher up and turned upside down somehow, and that the rest of the room disappeared entirely as he forgets to breathe for the next few seconds, or however long it is (he certainly couldn’t tell you) until Paul breaks away.

“If that was just to stop me taking the mick, you do realise you’ve given me no incentive to stop?” Paul smiles wryly but sincerely, his mouth still just centimetres away from Nico’s, his breath ghosting gently on Nico’s parted lips.

“I’ll put up with it,” Nico answers with a matching smile, and feeling more confident than he’s done in a long while (and his hand is still at the back of Paul’s neck, and Paul’s hand is still on his waist, fingers bunched a little into the hem of his tshirt).

This time it’s Paul who closes the gap, wrapping his other arm around Nico’s waist to pull him close, and just before Nico’s brain short-circuits all over again (but in a _much_ more pleasant way this time) he wonders for maybe half a second how long he’ll have to endure Timo going _I told you so_ at every opportunity…

*

“I don’t care what you say Kimi, your music is rubbish. And the Beatles are better than everything, it’s just a fact.” Kimi reaches for the iPod, but even Kimi’s reactions are slightly impaired by this point in the evening and Sebastian squirms out of the way. “ _And_ , you can’t deny that it’s better than this rubbish Felipe’s chosen,” he adds, and presses play before Kimi can stop him.

Kimi is about to retaliate when Jenson appears beside them.

“Seb, you are my _saviour_ ,” he says, grinning tipsily and sliding his arm around Seb’s waist. “Beatles. Best idea all night. Ever.”

Seb freezes, and then looks up to find that Kimi has disappeared. Completely. He isn’t sure if he’s cross or grateful…

“Anyway, how’s your night?”

“Fine, okay, yes…” _Why can’t he even form simple sentences when Jenson is around?!_

“Fabulous!” Jenson says, and takes the CD case out of Sebastian’s hands to scan the track list, humming his approval as he goes.

Seb takes a deep breath. “Jens, I need to tell you something.”

“Oh?” Jenson says, unhooking his arm from around Seb’s waist to turn around and face him properly. "Are you ok? You sound a little distracted…”

“Jenson… I think you should know, I…”

“Actually, hold that thought…” Jenson interrupts, something over Sebastian’s shoulder apparently catching his attention. He leans down to whisper in Seb’s ear, sending goosebumps up his spine. “I can’t see Paul and Nico anymore, and I _think_ I know where they’ve gone…” He leans back, grins knowingly, and leaves poor Sebastian standing before he can say anything to reply.

When Seb looks round again, Kimi is back by his side, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t ask,” Sebastian says, taking the vodka bottle out of Kimi’s hand and knocking it back for several seconds straight. Kimi looks at the bottle cap in his hand for a moment, and then throws it over his shoulder to clatter into a corner somewhere.


	48. Chapter 48

“We can’t do this here…” Nico’s protest is less than half-hearted, especially as he’s still busy untucking Paul’s shirt even as he says it.

“No, we really shouldn’t,” Paul says, and he doesn’t sound like he means it either, and his hands are busy running up the back of Nico’s neck and into his hair, and snaking around to the small of his back to pull him right close, before he pushes Nico gently back against the wall to silence any further so-called objections with a kiss that moves from his mouth to his jaw and down his neck. It sends tingles up Nico’s spine and he squirms appreciatively against Paul, tucking his thumbs into Paul’s waistband and wondering if he has enough coordination to undo a belt, or at the very least get that bloody tshirt off.

It takes a slight struggle, but Nico manages to tug Paul’s shirt off over his head, both of them laughing (not giggling, definitely not giggling) when it gets temporarily stuck over Paul’s head. Paul somehow manages the fiddly task of Nico’s shirt buttons, resisting the urge just to pull the whole thing open (they do have to go back out again after all), but still almost growling in frustration as he tries to undo them whilst still being kissed thoroughly by Nico, who isn’t wasting a single second, and is already working on Paul’s jeans. Paul groans as Nico’s hand brushes against the hardness under the denim, and Nico can’t help but smile against Paul’s mouth.

Paul clearly decides that _smug_ isn’t a good look on Nico, because he leans back to give Nico an attempt at a disapproving look, and then Nico finds that smile being kissed right off his face, and hands are back at waistbands and belt buckles.

“Do you think they’ve noticed we’ve gone?” Nico asks breathlessly, breaking the kiss after a few moments.

“Doubt it,” Paul mutters practically into his ear, because his mouth is back to trailing kisses along Nico’s neck.

“How long do you think we’ve got until they do?”

“Long enough…”

Nico wonders how someone who looks to all the world so plain and uncomplicated can carry off what can is most definitely a _fiendish_ grin. But as usual when Paul’s around, he goes from overthinking, to not really thinking at all anymore, because he has much better things to concentrate on…

*

Jenson has only been missing for a moment or two before he reappears in the living room, holding his arms wide and clearing his throat, waiting until people notice him and noise subsides enough for him to announce in a stage whisper that Nico and Paul might just be _‘making use of’_ the spare bedroom… The news is greeted with the obligatory laughter, whooping, and whistling from almost everyone present.

“Why do you even _have_ a spare bedroom?” Fernando asks, his reaction a much more subdued shake of the head and a smile.

“So drunk party guests don’t steal _our_ bedroom, for sure,” Felipe replies, sticking his tongue out.

“Don’t you dare get any ideas, Fernando,” Rob adds, giving both Fernando and Mark a telling look. “Our bedroom is out of bounds. Actually, you too Mr Button,” and he stares deliberately past Jenson and towards the front door, and Jenson turns to follow Rob’s eyeline.

“Nico!” he exclaims gleefully, and is across the room in an instant, holding each of Nico’s hands slightly away from his sides as he gives him a loud smack of a kiss. “I thought you were never coming!”

If Nico had a reply to that, it’s swallowed by what can only be described as a ‘smooch’, which would rival the final scene of a classic romantic movie.

Over by the stereo still, Sebastian swears in German (though audible only to those closest to him), his expression turning understandably black. And it’s not like Jenson is paying him any attention anymore, so there’s no danger of him noticing. Whilst on the sofa, all the Brazilians (apart from Tony, of course, who just looks smug) look disappointed, Felipe trying in vain to argue that since Nico’s arrival was never factored in, all bets are off…

After a while people give up waiting for Jenson to stop kissing Nico so that they can say hello to him, and instead go back to their own conversations.

*

The problem with drinking heavily is that alcohol is _liquid_ , and when there’s only one bathroom at the venue, there is _always_ a queue. David waits until he’s almost certain that the bathroom is finally free, and nips out into the back corridor. (The spare bedroom door is still firmly shut, and he chuckles.) But just as he rounds the corner he sees the bathroom door shut in front of him as well.

“Typical,” he thinks, and decides to wait it out. They won’t be long, for sure.

He waits.

“Whoever they are, they’re taking their time,” he mutters to himself.

It’s only when another few moments have passed that he realises that he’s not heard any running water, any clink of porcelain, or anything to explain what’s taking so long.

He’s about to knock and ask if everything is alright when there’s a thud against the door, and he jumps back a step. Not before though he’s heard a breathless laugh and the scrape of _something_ down the lower half of the inside of the door. David steps forward again and gingerly leans in to listen, worried that someone is trying not to pass out in there, when there’s another, much dirtier (and quite familiar) laugh, followed by a small thud from what sounds like approximately head height, accompanied by a swear word which dissolves into a groan. A Russian swear word.

David finds his imagination suddenly assaulted with the mental image of Vitaly, backed up against the bathroom door, with his head tipped back and his trousers and boxers now around his ankles, and with Bruno on his knees in front of him doing utterly filthy things with that mouth of his…

“Ah.” David decides that knocking probably isn’t necessary anymore. “Well, _‘they’_ was certainly the right word,” he semi-whispers to himself, stepping away from the door, and then retreating rapidly back down the corridor to the living room before he can hear anything else vividly incriminating.

*

Nico and Paul eventually return to the living room, and are met with a round of applause, making Nico’s face burn with embarrassment, but then Paul takes his hand and squeezes it, and doesn’t let go, and Nico finds that he’s smiling, and that really, he doesn’t actually care that everyone knows. Even Rubens, who manages to look absolutely genuinely happy for him, despite the slight tinge of fondness and regret that he can’t quite keep from his expression.

“Are they the first ones to _‘christen’_ the spare bedroom?” Kimi asks when the cheering subsides.

Felipe grins wickedly. “Not at all. We _‘christened’_ the whole apartment when we moved in…” Rob, back by Felipe’s side, looks possibly even more embarrassed than Nico had done seconds before, but then he sees that Bruno is trying to stifle a giggle, and a blush has spread onto Vitaly’s cheeks, and then Rob’s too busy laughing at the Russian’s awkward squirming to be embarrassed himself anymore.

“Actually, you two were in the bathroom, not the bedroom, I heard you,” David corrects, and Vitaly sends him a death glare whilst Felipe just starts laughing uncontrollably.

*

The evening ticks onwards into night. Jenson and Nico take up residence in an armchair for a rather long time, apparently getting the verging-on-inappropriate public displays of affection out of the way before they move on to the seemingly secondary activities of drinking and socialising. Though when they do join the party properly, Jenson looks disappointed every time he turns to find that Nico is no longer right by his side, and is instead chatting to other people without him.

Matteo (Rob’s friend from the factory) finally arrives, and Rob berates him for being so late, handing him the very last of the British beers and dragging him through the crowds to find his other colleagues, stopping to introduce him to almost everyone along the way. Timo and Jerome finally find each other as well, and realise that actually, they’ve missed each other quite a bit since Jerome moved to Black Ices, and maybe they should go for a drink sometime?

There’s a lull in the stereo war for a while, as Nico R and Mark find that U2 are popular with pretty much everyone (and finding themselves having probably the longest conversation they’ve ever had since Nico and Jenson started dating), before it then escalates again as all sides become increasingly inebriated. Rob jumps in and insists on some Led Zeppelin, which is then upgraded to AC/DC by Timo, switched out to dance again by Jaime (who finds an unlikely ally in Lucas – his colleague from their part-time jobs at the Pirelli corner store – when they discover a mutual taste in David Guetta), then replaced by Rubens’ old-school Brazilian country music, and the cycle continues, whilst Bruno just scolds Felipe for not having a better quality sound system. Certain CDs start to go missing, and Jaime accuses _everyone_ of stealing his iPod when it vanishes from the dock on the stereo itself. (It will, however, be mysteriously returned to his DJ booth at the Red Bull Bar several days later, though Jaime will never be any the wiser as to who took it. The only person to ever figure it out will be Heikki, when he hears a song that Jaime hasn’t even released yet playing in the Lotus Parlour. And Kimi never was very good at looking innocent…)

*

“Roooob?” Felipe tries to sit on the arm of the sofa, where Rob, Andrea , Matteo, and Giuliano have moved onto the remains of the Scotch, but his balance is somewhat suspect by this point, and he slides off and falls into a semi-sprawl on Rob’s lap. “Hi…” he says, sounding surprised, and then snuggling up against Rob, the word muttered into the crook of Rob’s neck.

“Yes F’lipe?” Rob says, managing to sound far more sober than he is.

“Where is Pastor?”

“I think he left,” Matteo says, taking the opportunity to steal and down Rob’s drink, whilst he both won’t notice, and couldn’t reach if he did…

“Oh,” Felipe pouts. “He did not say goodbye.”

“You’ll survive,” Rob says, and lets Felipe stay cuddled against him as he goes back to his own conversation, wondering for a brief moment how he’s managed to forget finishing his drink…

*

“Lucas!”

“Hullo again Jaime. Sorry, I can’t help you with the music again, Felipe’s confiscated my iPod…”

“No, I hear you have good news!”

“I have?”

Jaime drops an arm around Lucas’ shoulder and hands him a glass that _looks_ like champagne, but smells like energy drink. Lucas takes a sip, and it turns out to be both, and possibly with a shot of vodka in there too… And it doesn’t actually taste that bad.

“New job? Up north?” Jaime prompts. “I cannot believe you did not tell me yourself.”

“Oh, yes, in Le Mans…”

“That is quite a long way from here… It’s an interesting place though, you know? The sun doesn’t set on midsummer’s day, and it doesn’t rise at midwinter. And those parties are _legendary_.” Jaime’s expression says all Lucas needs to know about how much he’d love to DJ at one of those events.

“I know, that’s what I’m going up there for. Got a job with _Vorsprung Durch Techno_ …”

“Audi?” Jaime whistles, unhooking his arm from Lucas’ shoulders and leaning back. “That is one classy establishment. Congratulations.” He toasts their glasses together, and downs his in one. “I know Giancarlo is doing well at Café Ferrari’s place there, so I hope the town treats you just as well.” Jaime gives Lucas a nod, and is about to slip back into the party when he appears to change his mind. “Oh, and if you ever end up in Toyota, that Japanese club? Say hi to Sébastien for me. It’s been a while.”

Jaime gives him a smile that’s a little more thoughtful than his trademark sparkling grin, and only then heads back to his more usual social groups. Seconds later there’s the sound of an indignant Sebastian, and Jaime’s laugh above the rest of the chatter.

*

Around the dining table, the drinking games begin, Jenson, Mark, and Jaime leading the way, and the crowd growing until people are sharing chairs, eventually culminating in a progressively more revealing game of _Never Have I Ever_ which Mark, ever his secretive self, excuses himself from, inviting anyone who just wants to get on with the important business of drinking into the kitchen for a round or two of his signature Sydney Slammers. A handful of others join him, and shortly that descends into an all out drinking competition. Mark drops out before the end, mindful of his own limits, but not everyone is quite so self-aware, with some of the younger guests retreating hastily to locations such as the sink, the bathroom, and the balcony for some fresh air…

*

“You are not… _refined_ in the slightest,” Jean-Eric can’t help but laugh as Dan staggers over and all but collapses onto the sofa next to him, almost spilling Jean-Eric’s wine with the force of the impact.

“Nope!” he declares, grinning drunkenly. “’Specially not when Mark starts a drinking competition… It _was_ just drinking games, but then he said that no one was drinking properly.” He shuffles around from his slumped-down position to punch Jean-Eric playfully on the arm. “But you like me just the way I am!”

“Yes, yes I do,” Jean-Eric admits, and he leans back, his arm casually lying on the back of the sofa, and allowing Dan to settle comfortably against him. “Braces and all,” he teases.

Dan makes an unimpressed huff and flicks his middle finger up (dangerously close to Jean-Eric’s face), and lets his head fall back onto Jean-Eric’s shoulder. Jean Eric just chuckles, because Dan is kind of sweet, especially like this, when his natural light-heartedness tries to become flirty, and mostly fails… And hell, why not? They’re both drunk (well, Dan is drunk, Jean-Eric is tipsy) so he dares to drop the smallest of kisses onto the top of Dan’s head, just a peck, because he can.

“Hang on,” Dan says, several moments later, and taking several attempts to sit up and face Jean-Eric, “did you just _kiss_ me?!”

Jean-Eric smiles slightly. “Maybe…?” he offers, finding his usual natural class and confidence degenerating into a mixture of giggles at Dan’s inebriated sincerity and an unfamiliar shyness. He’ll blame the alcohol for that… “But only there,” he continues, gently tapping the crown of Dan’s head.

“Oh,” Dan says, looking a little dejected, and flumps back again.

“ _Oh?_ ” Jean-Eric mimics. “Pourquoi? Are you disappointed?” he can’t help but tease.

“ _Maybe_ …” Dan replies, mirroring Jean-Eric’s answer from moments ago. But then his expression changes from challengingly flirty and into an exaggerated confusion. “You mustn’t take advantage,” he says.

“I did not do anything!” Jean-Eric laughs.

“You kissed me!” Dan replies.

“That was not taking advantage. It was not even a proper kiss. And I would not take advantage, not of you. I have to work with you…” The last phrase is added almost as an afterthought.

“Yes you would. You’re French. Actually, no, you’re just you… You’re out to seduce everyone. And that’s not fair if I’m drink. Drunk… I wouldn’t remember it…”

“You would not need much seducing in your state!” Jean-Eric laughs again, and Dan whacks him on the arm. “But are you saying you _want_ me to seduce you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Dan says, falling back into the sofa with a defeated thud. “You’re, you’re…” He gives up and just waves a badly coordinated gesture at his friend.

“You just pointed at all of me…” Jean-Eric says with no small amount of amusement.

“Precisely,” Dan says, staring at the ceiling. “You’re you. Effortlessly charming, quietly confident, unfairly gorgeous _you_. How do the rest of us stand a chance when you’re around?” He sighs again. “Who wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t ask who wouldn’t. I asked if you would.”

“Now you’re making fun of me,” Dan says morosely. “Not when I’m drunk. I’ll say something that I don’t want you to know.”

“Worse than you think I’m gorgeous?” Jean-Eric teases, still smiling.

“Much worse.”

“There’s worse?”

“Lots.”

“What could be so bad that you do not want me to ever know?”

“Because having a stupid crush on my completely out of my league colleague is bad enough, imagine how much worse it would be if you knew.” Dan’s eyes fly open wide, and then screw up shut, and he doesn’t move, as if staying still enough will make him vanish. “Shit. Jeez, Jean-Eric, I didn’t mean, I’m sorry, I…” He struggles to sit up, understandably wanting to be as far away as possible right now.

“If I know something about you, then you should know something about me, yes?” Jean-Eric interrupts, holding Dan where he is just with a look. “It is only fair.” When Dan tries to start talking again he just talks over him, and he shuts up almost immediately. “There is this person, yes?” he starts, sounding serious, almost confessional. “Brown hair, brown eyes, _biggest_ smile of anyone I have ever met, laughs at everything. I enjoy spending time with him. His taste in music is shit though…” Jean-Eric laughs slightly, and Dan just looks utterly despondent, wondering why Jean-Eric is telling him all this, other than just to make a point that no, he’s not available, and that yes, Dan has just made a complete prat of himself… “Anyway, I think he is quite attractive, but he does not believe it. And the only time I have kissed him, not long ago at all, he complained. But that kiss, it was not a proper kiss. So I think that maybe, if he will complain about me kissing him, then I should give him something to complain about, no? What do you think I should do?”

There’s a mischievous sparkle in Jean-Eric’s eyes, and Dan figures it out.

“You better not be making fun of me still.”

“I am being completely serious.”

“Because if you are, I am going to steal that poncey scarf of yours, dunk it in vodka and set it on _fire_ …” Jean-Eric raises his hands in surrender. “Good. Now… this will probably be rubbish, because I’m _very_ drunk, so promise me it won’t put you off doing it again when I’m sober.”

“I promise,” Jean-Eric says, quietly, Dan finding him already much closer to his own lips than he was even a few seconds ago.

“Oh boy,” Dan says, Jean-Eric grins almost predatorily, and then there’s very little else in Dan’s world other than the taste of French red wine, Jean-Eric’s hair in his fingers, and the need to somehow scramble even closer to each other.

*

There isn’t really room on the sofa for anyone else thanks to how, _enthusiastically_ Jean-Eric and Dan are _still_ making out, but this is Rubens, and he’s old enough to be pretty much unshockable.

“I just thought I would let you boys know,” he says, as the occupants of the sofa notice his presence and disentangle themselves enough to look around, suddenly feeling rather more self-conscious now that they remember the existence of the other party guests, “that the spare bedroom is available again…”

In five seconds flat the sofa is occupied solely by Rubens.

*

The doorbell goes _again_ , and it’s Heikki K.

“Hullo!” Rob says merrily, opening the door with a glass in hand and a tipsy smile. “Who invited you then? Felipe, did you invite Heikki?” he calls, leaning on the door for balance.

“It was not me!” Felipe calls back, and then Kimi appears, two full shot glasses in hand, and of course it would have been Kimi, because the vodka drinkers decided they needed reinforcements for the stereo war, and sure enough, a few moments later the music has changed again, and little Heikki is bouncing along to Nightwish whilst Kimi leans against the cabinet, smiling smugly, but then Heikki throws an arm around Timo’s shoulder, and maybe it was Timo who invited him? And hang on, “Kimi, what are you doing with superglue?” Rob asks.

“Winning…”

“Kimi, don’t you _dare_ glue my stereo shut!”

*

Superglue confiscated, Nightwish lasts a grand total of two songs (though that _is_ almost twenty minutes…) before Jenson replaces it with Mustang Sally (he always did like his more retro music), which starts up a singalong, Mark getting involved with some Oasis, which almost everyone can get behind, and it calms down again as the party carries on into those small hours that would be called ‘night’ if people were sleeping, but don’t really have a name when everyone is still awake.

Slowly, guests start to depart. Some say their thank yous and goodbyes, receiving delighted hugs from their cheerfully sloshed hosts (Michael makes sure _everyone_ knows when he leaves), whilst others simply slip away (a few at conspicuously similar times), and the utter racket that had characterised the rest of night begins to dwindle as the constant churn of people settles down into more relaxed groups.

By 4am the party is about half the size, and a fraction of the volume. Those who have definitely had too much are long gone, whilst those with better tolerances start to sober up. A few sensible souls drink water. Others crack open the ‘early hours’ spirits – the expensive brandies and choice whiskies – comparing life philosophies and deep discussion as they swill the liquor in their glasses. Kimi though keeps to the vodka, as he has done all night (especially as he now has Heikki to keep him company on that front); the only indication of how much he’s drunk being a slight pause before he does or says anything, as if he’s summoning his concentration. Then Timo and Heikki find each other, and are soon chatting away like they haven’t seen each other in months, rather than the grand total of two days since the last evening out at Marussia. On one sofa Nico R is curled up against Jenson, who is chatting away with Jake and David, the three of them sharing stories both old and new, a more than slightly possessive look on Nico’s face as he can do nothing much more than just listen to them reminisce about things that never have and never will include him. In an armchair, Bruno is fast asleep, a jacket tucked over him by Vitaly (who doesn’t have the heart to wake him), and those sitting close enough chuckle at the tiny snores. The people who want to stay argue over who gets the spare room and who gets the sofas, Rob and Felipe simply letting them figure it out amongst themselves.

The sky is beginning to turn purple in the east when the hosts announce that they’re going to sleep (“Yeah right,” Mark coughs), informing their guests that there are blankets in the cupboard for those who want to stay, and then escaping just before Jenson can rope them into a round of poker.

*

“Felip-ah!” Rob pants, and grabs the hair at the nape of Felipe’s neck, pulling him up and away again, an action which Felipe (probably purposefully) misreads as a signal to kiss Rob senseless, until he’s almost forgotten that he was trying to tell him off. When Felipe’s hand slides back down again though Rob groans into the kiss, and then pulls away, his words shortened by heaving breaths. “’Lipe, we can’t now, people will hear!”

Felipe tips his head to one side and gives Rob his most endearingly innocent look. Then he grins, and any sense of innocence vanishes.

“Is our house. If they do not like, they can leave. And I have been good _all night_ , just like you asked…”

Rob would correct him, and point out that they vanished earlier on in the evening for significantly more than just a couple of kisses, but he doesn’t have a chance to before Felipe has slid down and taken the whole of him into that filthy, alcohol-loosened mouth of his, and despite being well aware of _quite_ how loud that noise he just made was, Rob struggles to care about who can hear now.

And it was a damn good party in the end, so really, they’ve probably earned it…


	49. Chapter 49

It’s nearly midday when Rob shuffles into the kitchen in just his pyjama bottoms to fumble at the switch on the kettle and blearily clatter around the drawers, cupboards, and jars to find the teabags, pushing aside the swathes of empty bottles and dirty glasses, and wincing as every louder-than-intended noise echoes into his rather delicate head. He’s dimly aware that he’s unlikely to be the only one in the house with a hangover, but his need for a decent cup of tea overrides any of the concern he would usually have for his guests.

The kettle finishes its extraordinarily noisy boil with a click, and Rob puts his drink together, turning to lean against the worktop and cradling his mug in both hands, blowing at the steam and sipping it gently. He’s just settled in when he hears a groan from the direction of the living room. With his tea already beginning to clear his head somewhat (it’s a miracle drink, he swears) he peeks through the doorway and surveys the remains of the party.

It seems that most people must have gone home, but there are still a few scattered over both the floor and furniture of the living room. On the smaller sofa, Charles is curled up with his head on the armrest, almost exactly where he’d fallen asleep the night before, before even Rob and Felipe had gone to bed, and it doesn’t look like he’s woken up at all since then. The armchair now contains Kimi (Vitaly must have taken Bruno home at some point), his head tipped right back and his cap pulled down over his eyes, and his arms folded on his chest, as if he was just taking a quick nap. Jerome and Timo have set up a comfy area out of the beanbags that looks like it had been just big enough for four, whilst Heikki (and, on the other side, Lucas) seem to have lost out during the night, and decided that they were happy enough on the floor with just a couple of cushions under their heads, rather than attempt to fight for their spaces again. Tony and Rubens look far too old to be kipping on friends’ couches, but they’re top-and-tailing on the larger sofa like a pair of brothers, Tony snoring quietly. Rubens, who seems to have been woken by the kettle, lifts his head, grabs a cushion, and thumps it down in the general direction of Tony’s head. It bounces off Tony’s _shoulder_ and onto the floor, but still has the desired effect – Tony snuffles, shifts, and stops snoring. Rubens then waves with a semi-conscious cheerfulness at Rob, who just returns the wave (he doesn’t feel like talking just yet, he just wants to go back to bed, until his head is made of something other than china and his stomach has stopped trying to make a break for freedom…).

Then the door through to the back half of the apartment opens, and David appears, wearing only his boxers and a tshirt that doesn’t look like the one he was wearing when he arrived last night… In fact, it looks rather like the one _Jenson_ was wearing…

“Morning,” he smiles to Rob. “Have you seen my jeans? Y’know, the white ones? I don’t know where they went…” Rob isn’t given a chance to ask the questions he isn’t sure if he should really ask before David has spotted the mug in Rob’s hand. “Ah, I thought I smelt something good. Enough hot water for another cup?” Rob just nods, deciding that questions are beyond him right now, and heads back into the kitchen to switch the kettle on again. David doesn’t follow though, and when Rob turns round to see where he’s got to he sees him standing beside one of the sofas, looking at the floor, and from the looks of things, poking something with his foot. “Morning Jens!” he declares at a volume that is most definitely consciously too loud. There’s another groan, but this time it’s from the other side of the room, where Timo has pulled his blanket over his head and is apparently trying to hide from the very existence of daytime. Then Jenson appears from behind the sofa, looking decidedly worse for wear, and struggling to sit upright whilst still wrapped up in a blanket… and apparently not much else… “Jens, did you not even bother to get dressed again?!” David laughs.

“…is Nico back there too?” Rob ventures, still not _really_ wanting to ask questions, but he’s confused and hungover and is asking anyway.

“Oh, he’s gone, he had to get to the restaurant early,” David replies.

“Have I missed something?” Rob asks slightly desperately, hoping that the conclusion he’s reached is the wrong one (because he doesn’t want to be in any way responsible for the fallout if Nico finds out…).

A combination of Tony’s snoring, the kettle (twice), and David’s voice means that most of the room is awake now (for given definitions of _awake_ ), and when Jenson sits up and peers out around the sofa, he finds a good number of people staring at him.

His eyes widen.

“It’s not what it looks like!” he pleads, his hands in the air in horror.

“Wait, you didn’t think, did you…?” David just starts laughing. “No, no, he’s just shit at poker!”

The recliner creaks slightly as Kimi leans his head back just far enough for him to see out from under the peak of his cap. “Really shit,” he mumbles, only just loud enough to hear, and rests his head back down.

“Alright for some,” Jenson mutters, wrapping himself more tightly in the blanket. “That bastard didn’t even have to take his hat off… Whose idea was strip poker anyway? And hang on, David, is that _my_ tshirt?!”

*

With pretty much everyone now awake, Rob finds himself making a full round of teas and coffees. Or at least trying to – the aroma draws Felipe from his comfy duvet and into the kitchen, apparently bored of waiting for Rob to get back, and remarkably un-hungover (“I did not drink any tequila this time,” he explains), but on finding Rob attempting to perform the sacrilegious act of making _instant_ coffee in _their_ house, Felipe’s barista’s instincts kick in, hopping down from his seat on the countertop to immediately inform Rob that he’s “doing it wrong, put that disgusting stuff away. You should stick to just tea, for sure.”

Rob’s objections that he’s perfectly competent with coffee, and just can’t be bothered with the fuss when he’s this hungover go entirely ignored.

“Well it is a good thing I am fine, no?”

“Back seat barista…” Rob mutters fondly, and ruffles Felipe’s hair. Felipe just pushes Rob away with a barely disguised grin.

“Is what I am good at.”

“And other things,” Rob winks, and slips out of the kitchen with the tray of tea before Felipe can say anything else.

*

Felipe isn’t the only one who seems to have survived the previous night far too well. Heikki is completely hangover free ( _lucky git for arriving so late_ , Rob thinks), and David seems to have escaped relatively unscathed as well. Jenson on the other hand spends most of the ‘morning after’ sprawled in the armchair (thankfully back in his clothes) moaning melodramatically about his head, whilst Charles manages about a third of a cup of black coffee before sloping off home, looking _miserable_. Kimi meanwhile removes neither his hat nor his sunglasses, and speaks barely another word until he leaves. Rob wouldn’t have thought anything of that had he not seen Sociable Kimi the night before. (Although the sunglasses indoors are more than a _little_ odd, even for Kimi.) The giveaway though is his reaction when Heikki tries to perk everyone up with a bit of music – after a deceptively soothing first twenty seconds the track becomes the heavy guitars of Within Temptation, at which Kimi simply unplugs the power cable from the back of the stereo and the wall, and hands it to Rob with a grim mumble of “Hide it.”

Rob can only agree, exchanging the cable for a foil of painkillers. “We’re not going through _that_ again…”

*

Tony and Rubens are the last to depart, heading off around mid-afternoon to catch their train back to Indy, leaving Rob and Felipe to work through until dusk cleaning up the wreckage of the previous night.

“So when do we get to have the next party?” Felipe asks, once the last bottle of alcohol they hadn’t owned at this point yesterday is locked neatly back inside the cabinet. He’s still smiling, and has spent most of the afternoon humming cheerfully to himself.

Rob puts his hand on his hip and inspects the living room, _finally_ back to rights.

“Next time we move house, I reckon…”

Rob thinks that Felipe puts up _far_ too little argument, and decides to keep an eye on their internet history, just in case any estate agents start popping up…


	50. Chapter 50

**Inbox: (1) new message  
** From: Vitaly Petrov  
Subject: (no subject)

I am never sure if I should trust rumours in this town, but I hear that you are much better? We are all looking forward to you coming home again, it has not been the same without you here, and I have plenty of news too. But do not rush your recovery just to see us again, only come when you are ready. We can wait.

Vitaly

  
  


**Inbox: (1) new message  
** From: Robert Kubica  
Subject: re: (no subject)

Vitaly, good to hear from you.

It always amazes me how fast word travels back home – you do not have to tell anyone for everyone to know something. But you will be happy to hear that yes, your sources (whoever they are) are correct – my recovery is coming along very well. I have even been able to start exploring the woods and hills around the town here again, like I had planned to do before I fell ill. Rally is a beautiful place, perhaps you could come visit if you ever have the time.

But don’t worry, I won’t rush - the roads here are not easy to travel at the best of times, and I would not want to make the journey until I am completely well again.

It will be good to see you again though.

Send my best wishes to Fernando,

Robert


	51. Chapter 51

“Jens?”

“Mmhmph?”

Lewis stops in the door of the kitchen, looking disapprovingly at a sight he is getting bored of seeing. “Seriously Jens, you’re gonna be in the shit if Martin catches you eating the mixture again.”

“But it’s so _tasty_ ,” Jenson can’t help but almost wail, immediately swiping his finger up the side of the spoon and stuffing it back into his mouth.

“What’s tasty?”

Lewis jumps in front of Jenson, just in time, as Martin comes through the door not a second later.

“The cocktails, at Red Bull,” Lewis hastily covers, giving Jenson the chance to swallow.

“Yes, I’m well aware that they are… Actually, that reminds me, I have a, erm, _meeting_ to schedule.” Martin smiles. “As you were boys.”

Jenson sighs with relief as the door swings shut behind Martin, who’s already pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through his contacts.

“You owe me one,” Lewis says accusingly, turning around to gesture at Jenson with a cloth. And finding his colleague already eating the mixture once more. He sighs. “Next time, you’re on your own, you know that?”

Jenson shrugs, not paying much attention to Lewis anymore, and with a different bowl almost cradled against him. “Sure, sure, but _really_ , Lewis, have you _tasted_ this?! It’s _incredible!_ I’m a genius, clearly.”

“Definitely on your own,” Lewis mutters.

*

From the back office come the sounds of Martin in the middle of his Extremely Vital Phonecall.

“Christian, yes hullo. I was just thinking, we probably should have another one of our meetings. Yes, very important indeed. Crucial. Well isn’t it your turn to host? If the VIP area is free… Sounds good. I’ll see you there. Oh and I’ll call Stefano. Indeed, he’d better not be late, the first round’s on him! Alright, see you on Thursday!”


	52. Chapter 52

The Pirelli Corner Store is always busy. Understandably so – it’s the only grocers in Fia, and even premier DJs and lauded chefs need toilet paper and milk. At least Jaime and Lucas can never complain about being bored. Although when Lucas compares his shifts these days to those long, carefree afternoons spent in Virgin Dining, playing ping pong on the empty tables with Timo, he wonders how that was ever a reason to complain.

It wouldn’t be quite so hard if things were still like they’d been a few years ago, when Bridgestone Stores and The Michelin Market each had a shop, but these days it’s only them, doing probably the least glamorous job in town, with long shifts, a lot of heavy lifting, and a dull uniform of grey, slightly itchy shirts. At least their manager Paul isn’t above mucking in when things get really out of hand, even stacking shelves or mopping up spills, and generally being friendly and helpful to everyone. (But don’t ask him to use the tills – he never could understand the fiendish things, with cash drawers that seemed determined to eat his fingers, and more buttons than he can _possibly_ see the need for.)

They probably don’t need as many umbrellas as Paul insists on stocking though – two full racks of them by the main door, everything from tiny pocket-sized ones to huge golf umbrellas, and all in a bright green colour. Or the several shelves of tough rubber wellington boots, in a similarly bright blue, next to the umbrellas. Or the giant display of sun cream for that matter, which even in a seaside town is probably overkill. But Jaime and Lucas are far too busy to ask questions. And as workplace quirks go, it could be worse. Although both of them wish that they were allowed to change the channel on the little tv behind the cash desks to something other than the weather channel…

Half past three though is break time. Jaime props the “Be Right Back” sign against the till, and he and Lucas escape to the alleyway behind the store, snatching up a couple of cans of energy drink on the way.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Lucas sighs, stretching his arms and clicking his neck. “I’m exhausted just working here, I have no idea how you hold down another day job on top of this _and_ your DJ work.”

Jaime shrugs, opening his can with a hiss. “I just man the phones on weekends at the travel agents, it’s not the toughest of jobs. BBCruises hasn’t been half as busy since Sky Airways came along. And I don’t do as much DJing as I used to either. Dance isn’t so popular anymore, and Dan’s rock and indie nights have been pulling in the crowds.”

“Do you remember when he used to do the deliveries for HRTapas?” Lucas chuckles. “I don’t think he made a single one on time.”

“That wasn’t his fault!” Jaime laughs. “Promising to deliver orders in less than one hour and seven minutes would have worked if they’d given him a scooter that could move faster than a slow jog…”

“Or make it through even a week without breaking down…”

“At least it worked out in the end. He said he would never have thought of becoming a DJ if it hadn’t been for the hours spent waiting for the recovery truck with only his ipod for company.“

“Talking of things breaking down though, I hear Jean Eric hasn’t had the best of luck recently?”

Jaime shakes his head in empathy. “Two weeks in a row now he hasn’t been able to finish a set. Last week someone spilt a drink into his laptop, and the other day Michael knocked over an entire box of his records, shattered most of them.”

Lucas winces. “That’s not great.”

“No, not at all.”

In the brief lull in the conversation they get about halfway through their cans before Paul sticks his head around the door.

“Sorry lads, break’s over. Lucas, can you take over the till? We’ve got a queue already. I had a go, but I never could get a handle on those things, far too complicated for me… And Jaime, can you _please_ turn the music down?!”

“Sorry boss, that was me,” Lucas interjects.

“Whoever, I don’t mind, just remember we’re not in the Red Bull; the customers here have to be able to hear you speak!”

“Yes boss…” they chorus.

“Back to the grindstone,” Lucas laments once Paul has gone again. “It’s a thankless job, this.”

“Someone has to do it,” Jaime shrugs, and sets to downing his can.

“It’s been ridiculous recently though. How are you going to manage when I’m gone?”

Jaime takes a moment too long to reply.

“Oh, so I’m not the only one with plans then? And you told _me_ off for not telling you! So where are you moving on to?”

Jaime shifts slightly uncomfortably, but can’t help but smile coyly. “You will know when everyone else does. I do not want to jinx it. I’m worried that I already have…”

“Fair enough. Well, I’d toast to our futures with something better,” Lucas raises his can, “make you something funky with champagne, like you did, but drinking on the job and all that… And we definitely need the caffeine more than anything right now!”

Jaime can’t help but laugh, and they clink the remains of their cans to their new careers.

“May they be bright,” Lucas says.

“Successful, and long,” Jaime adds. “Salud!”

“Saúde!”

“Lads!” comes the call from inside, as they drain the last drops from their drinks.

“No rest for the wicked,” Jaime rolls his eyes.

“I don’t want to know!” Lucas replies, chucking his can in the nearest bin.


	53. Chapter 53

In a town famous for its nightlife and relaxed café culture, it wasn’t surprising that the residents weren’t really that interested in politics. As long as they could carry on with their lives without restriction – staying up until dawn, drinking and dancing, spending their afternoons at tables on terraces in the almost perpetual sunshine, relaxing on the beach on the weekends, and enjoying fine dining in the evenings – then they didn’t really mind who was in charge.

It was thanks to this decided lack of concern that Mayor Ecclestone had managed to stay in charge for as long as he had, despite dividing opinion in the town like few others, and was able get away with many of the more controversial of his decisions; from his notoriously overambitious tourism policy, to his remarkably draconian legislation on certain issues, as well as the regular stream of crazy proposals he came up with. People grumbled about him, but really, throwing him out would just mean having to deal with the awkward question of who should replace him. And they were all of the opinion that they had better things to be thinking about.

Every now and again though, he made a decision that everyone could agree with.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Fia was deserted. The shops were shuttered, the restaurants and bars closed, the beach empty. Today, instead of lounging in plazas or gossiping over coffee, the whole town had gathered on the outskirts, and were stood outside a large, sleek building, in front of which was strung a red ribbon. Previous residents had come from miles around to be there, from Nascar to Indy to Tour Deustch or beyond, Sky Airways stood shoulder to shoulder with BBCruises, old rivalries and feuds forgotten as everyone came together to pay their respects.

Mayor Ecclestone handed the scissors to Murray Walker, acclaimed reporter and retired editor of the town’s only newspaper.

“On behalf of the town of Fia, I invite you to do the honours,” the Mayor said.

Murray took the scissors and lifted the ribbon.

“It is my great pleasure to dedicate this building in the name of our old friend, and declare the Sid Watkins Memorial Hospital open.” The ribbon was sliced neatly, and fell to the floor to a round of applause from the assembled crowds. “May we continue to save lives in his memory.”

*

After a tour of the new hospital, led by by Doctor Bernd Mayländer, the great and the good of the town (both past and present) gathered in what would tomorrow become the ambulance bay, to pass around champagne and reminisce; the distinguished families and the illustrious names nattering together with renowned professors and politicians, Michelin starred chefs and owners of fêted restaurants sharing trays of canapés with award winning barmen and decorated baristas, neighbours and colleagues from decades past catching up for the first time in years, and everyone sharing stories together about their great friend.

“Eddie, Murray, pleasure to see you.” The tartan capped man who had just appeared beside them touched his champagne glass against theirs in a toast. “To Sid.”

“To Sid,” they echoed.

“So Murray, can we expect you to be sticking around at all?” Eddie asked.

Murray shook his head. “Oh I don’t think so, I’m afraid. I’m far too old for this town these days. A few of us _were_ thinking of making a trip to the Ayrton Lakes though, if you’d like to join us? Sid always said the fishing was spectacular up there, but somehow we just never managed to go with him…”


	54. Chapter 54

Paperwork. There was always so much of the damn stuff. It piled up the moment you took your eye off it, appearing as if by magic; usually urgent, and always tedious. If there was one downside to running a restaurant this popular (other than the late nights and the lack of having a single weekend off in months) it was definitely the amount of paperwork – receipts, invoices, menus, maintenance records, order forms, rotas, bills, inventories, pay slips, reviews; the whole kit and caboodle.

Still, it had to be done. And there was no better time than the morning, hours before the lunchtime service, when the sun shone in through Ross’ office window and the restaurant was almost empty, just the occasional clatter from the kitchens below disturbing the quiet.

Ross has a calculator in his hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear, and about sixteen spreadsheets open on his computer screen when his concentration is disturbed by a knock that can be only one person – three clear, measured raps that somehow demand immediate attention.

“Come in, Michael.” Ross pushes his glasses up his nose and cracks the joints in his fingers, interlinking them and stretching his arms over the desk as he looks up to see his star chef standing in the doorway.

Ross has known Michael long enough to know when something isn’t entirely right, and there’s something in the way Michael hesitates before entering that is completely at odds with his characteristic semi-arrogant self-assurance.

Michael crosses the room and hands Ross an envelope, who stands up behind his desk to take it.

“I need to give you this,” Michael says.

“What is it?”

Michael smiles before he answers, and it looks strangely nostalgic.

“It is my resignation. With the required notice period, of course.”

“Your resignation?” Ross blinks in surprise, and then waves at Michael to sit. He does the same himself, resting his forearms on the desk in front of him. The envelope sits on the desk between the two of them.

“I didn’t know you were planning on retiring. Again,” he adds as an afterthought.

It’s not a question, but Ross doesn’t have to ask questions to get an answer, even from superstars like the man sat almost uncomfortably in the armchair on the other side of the desk (but only _almost_ uncomfortably – a man who can practically own any venue he cares to grace with his presence just by virtue of deigning to be there could never be truly uncomfortable, and especially not in a place he’s worked for years and in front of someone he’s known and trusted for decades).

“I wasn’t. But I thought that perhaps it was time.”

“Are you sure?”

Michael inhales slightly, and in that instant he appears more doubtful than Ross has ever seen him.

He exhales. “Yes, I am sure.”

The words become true as he speaks them, and the uncertainty vanishes from his face. If he wasn’t truly sure before, he is now.

“You know me, Ross, if I cannot do something to 100% then I do not want to do it, and I do not think that I have the motivation to give this my all anymore. I certainly do not think I have the energy.” He shrugs as he chuckles. “And perhaps this time it might be forever…”

“Alright then.” There’s no point in talking about it further – Ross knows full well that Michael cannot be swayed once he has made a decision. He picks up the envelope from in front of him and places it onto his ‘to do’ pile. “So what will you do next? You’re not one to sit around twiddling your thumbs.”

Michael gives a disinterested shrug and smiles. “I thought I might trade in champagne actually. After all, I have had plenty of experience with it over the years… But I am not thinking about that yet, I have the next few months to work first.”

Ross nods his reply. Then Michael stands to leave, and Ross stands with him.

“Ross, thank you,” Michael says. That in itself isn’t unusual – politeness demands it, and Michael is well aware of the importance of such things, but what makes it particularly unusual is that, for the first time Ross can recollect, he really seems to mean those words.

The two men shake hands.

“It’s been my pleasure, Michael.”

*

Nico hadn’t planned to listen in on their conversation, in fact when he’d come up the stairs and heard the boss talking to Michael, he was about to turn around and go straight back to the kitchen – there was too much to be getting on with to be hanging around waiting for them to finish chatting. Then he’d heard the word “resignation”, and he’d even forgotten what he’d come upstairs for in the first place…

Back in the kitchen, he fires off a couple of texts, because this is _News._

**_To: Nelsinho Piquet; Lewis Hamilton;  
_ ** _[[ You will never guess what I just heard… ]]_

*

“You alright there Lewis?” Whatever the message on Jenson’s colleague’s phone says, it’s certainly shocked him, and so Jenson _has_ to know… “Lewis?”

The current order in the panini press starts to smoke gently as Lewis continues to stare at his phone.

“Michael’s retiring,” he says, eventually.

 _“Really?!”_ Jenson’s voice goes up, and he peers over Lewis’ shoulder. “Bloody hell…”

“What’s that?” Mikey asks, poking his head out from the back corridor.

“Michael’s retiring. Again,” Jenson explains, already tapping away on his phone to pass on the news to Nico, Mark, and David. Mikey just whistles, and disappears again to tell Dave in the storeroom.

Jenson is just about to press send when he stops, frowning. “Hang on…” He picks up Lewis’ phone from the countertop (Lewis now busy swearing at the charred panini) and reads the message again, this time including who it’s from.

“Aw, frickin’ hell, Jens, why didn’t you tell me this was burning?!”

“Why did Nico text you and not me?” Jenson asks, completely ignoring his colleague’s comment.

“Like I know, Jens. He’s _your_ boyfriend, _you_ ask him.”

Jenson hums discontentedly, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the side of the cash register.

“You ok, Jens?”

Jenson looks up to find Sebastian now standing at the till, watching him with concern.

“Yeah, fine, don’t worry.” He smiles brightly and slides his phone back into his pocket. “What can I do for you today? And more importantly, have you heard the news? Michael’s retiring!”

*

It sort of annoys Felipe that he’s somehow learnt Mark’s coffee-schedule, because, in Felipe’s opinion, there are much more important things to fill his head with. Like the specific point on Rob’s neck where a little bite makes him make the most delicious whimpers, or the certain way Rob says his name when he’s only just woken up, voice still slightly rough and drawling, or the precise way Rob likes his tea… It had taken Felipe ages to learn that particularly important one – tea really hadn’t been his thing, but he wasn’t going to let that stupid drink beat him, and now, thanks to all those hours practicing (and Rob eventually admitting that perhaps there _was_ such a thing as too much tea…), he was pretty much in charge of those orders at the café too.

He’s still busy thinking of all those little things, making sure he hasn’t forgotten any of them, when the bell jangles.

It annoys Felipe again that he knows straight away that Mark is early.

“Buongiorno,” he says, trying not to sound too sullen. “You are early. Your drink is not ready for you.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. I just came early because I thought Fernando and you might want to hear the news whilst it was hot.”

“News?” Fernando joins Felipe at the till.

“Yeah. Michael’s retiring.”

Fernando’s eyes widen, and Felipe’s mouth falls open.

“I do not believe that,” Felipe says indignantly. “He would have told me.”

“Well that’s what people are saying mate. As of this morning, apparently.”

Felipe huffs, and leaves Fernando to make and ring up Mark’s drink. He’s not needed there anyway. And just in case, he pulls out his phone and texts Rob, Bruno, Rubens, and Lucas. He’ll ring Michael after his shift, but if it _is_ true, it just wouldn’t be fair not to have told his friends…

The bell jangles again, and there’s the sounds of a group of people arriving. Really, Felipe doesn’t need to look to know that Fernando is still busy with Mark, which will leave him to deal with the next customers. With a sigh, Felipe turns back to the till…

…to find an entire queue of Japanese tourists, filing neatly across the café and out the door into the street, some of them giggling and talking, one even snapping photos of the café, and more disconcertingly, of Felipe himself.

“Excuse me, are you Felipe?” the beaming man at the front of the queue asks. Felipe nods, dumbstruck. “Ah fantastic! My friend Kamui says you make the best coffee in town! May we have…” he turns and counts the queue, “thirty four _Türk kahvesis_ please. And we would like you to make them all personally. He says you are the best!”

The sound that breaks the stunned silence is the crash of a shocked Fernando dropping Mark’s drink onto the floor…


	55. Chapter 55

At the end of a long day (especially one like today, which came complete with a stupidly late finish) there’s very little else that Nico wants to do other than sprawl out in his wonderfully inviting and comfy-looking king-sized bed, snuggle into the indulgent heaps of pillows and cushions, burrow under the fluffy duvet, and drift off in peace and quiet. And whilst he should probably feel more guilty for thinking like this, it’s more than a relief to have it all to himself – he’s been far too tired of late to deal with having Jenson there next to him, snoring, kicking him in his sleep, stealing the duvet, taking up more than his fair share of space, getting handsy in the night, and then waking him up at stupid o’clock in the morning with his alarm…

So the last thing Nico wants to be doing when he’s already in his pyjamas and has only just pulled back the duvet is to be disturbed by an insistent hammering on his front door, that ignores his repeated yells to _Fuck off!_

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” he shouts eventually, because whoever it is doesn’t seem to want to give up anytime soon. There’s pretty much only one person it’s likely to be, although it’s not really like him to be quite this demanding ( _read: downright rude…_ ). Nico yanks the door open short-temperedly before the hammering can start up again. “For god’s sake Jenson, it’s two in the… Lewis?!”

The word that springs to Nico’s mind when he sees his friend is “manic”…

“Has Ross said who’s replacing Michael yet??” he demands.

“What?!” Nico wonders if he’s dreaming, and has actually fallen asleep on his face on the floor somewhere. “Lewis, it’s _two in the morning_ …”

“C’mon man, this is important!”

“I… no, no I don’t think so. It was only this morning, it hasn’t even been announced yet…”

“Aw, that’s _fantastic!_ ” Lewis laughs out loud, and throws his arms around a stunned Nico, almost bowling him over back into his flat, and bouncing as he hugs him. “ _You’re_ fantastic, man! That’s brilliant news!” He lets go almost as suddenly and beams, before bounding off to leap over the banister and land a couple of steps down the staircase.

“Lewis! What the hell is going on?!” Nico is completely at a loss as to what’s meant to have just happened on his own doorstep.

Lewis stops, and grins back up through the railing. “I have a _plan_ , Nico!”

Then he whoops, and disappears down the stairs, taking them two at a time and landing with a “ _Yeah_ ** _man!_** ” at the bottom.

“Was he _drunk_ …?” Nico bemusedly asks the empty air. He’s seen Lewis when he’s been drinking though, and that didn’t seem to be the case tonight. But there’s no one around to answer anymore, so he just shakes his head and shuts his door. He _really_ needs to sleep now…

*

Ross is used to being the first one to arrive at the restaurant by some hours in the morning (that’s why he turns up so early in the first place), so it comes as a surprise when he arrives to find that he’s not quite the first today – there’s someone he vaguely recognises sitting on the bench to the side of the back door, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and tapping an envelope impatiently against his other hand.

“Good morning?”

The person’s head snaps up at Ross’ voice, and he leaps to his feet smartly.

“Good morning Mr Brawn,” he says, giving Ross a firm, confident handshake. “My name’s Lewis, Lewis Hamilton. I’d like to give you this.”

Ross takes the offered envelope. “And what is this?”

“My CV, and a cover letter explaining why hiring me would be the best decision you’ve made in years.”

“Hiring you?” Ross is momentarily taken aback by Lewis’ forwardness, but it doesn’t last long, his slightly bemused frown lasting barely seconds before being replaced by an amused shake of his head – he knows this town is full of ambitious people, and he knows too how fast even “confidential” news travels between them (although he’s convinced that this is a new record…). “The position isn’t officially open for applicants yet,” he starts, and Lewis tenses slightly, “but I don’t see any issue with taking a look at this. And I appreciate your, _enthusiasm_ – I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Thanks man!” Lewis grins. “I mean, thank you sir…”

Ross can’t help but chuckle. “It’s Ross, please. And I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks again man. Sir. _Ross…_ ”

 _One thing is certain,_ Ross thinks to himself, _he’d certainly make a refreshing change from Michael…_

*

“Nico?”

“Yes Ross?” He would give his boss his full attention, but the last thing he wants is this caramel to burn…

“Lewis Hamilton, do you know him?”

“Lewis? Sure, known him for years…”

Ross’ reply is an amused exhale and a small smile. “Thought as much.”

It isn’t until Ross has left again that Nico realises what he was just asked, and he laughs to himself as he figures it out.

_**To: Lewis Hamilton**   
_ _[[ Nice move, man. But you could have just told me :P ]]_


	56. Chapter 56

News may travel fast, but a lack of news makes itself felt in the end – a silence where an announcement should be that people eventually begin to recognise and wonder about. And whilst it can never move as fast as actual news (after all, there’s an urgency and excitement to “something” that “nothing” just cannot have), once people start to notice it will start to spread at its own more sluggish pace, but more persistently, until everyone is aware of it. So for the first few weeks no one worries much that Michael’s replacement hasn’t been announced, or even that there’s been no official confirmation of his retirement (especially as neither he nor the restaurant say anything to the contrary, which is close enough to _confirmed_ for most people in town). Because having nothing to say isn’t really a talking point.

But the weeks pass and the blistering heat of summer begins to fade into the warmth of autumn, leaves starting to crisp at the edges and gather in gutters and the nights slowly starting to creep in (even though the days stay hot and the evenings balmy), and still there’s no news from Silver Arrows. There can’t be long left in Michael’s tenure at all now, and in the void where that news should be the rumours fly twice as fast with no inconvenient facts to hinder them, and almost every chef in town finds themselves at the centre of the gossip for their fifteen minutes. In the rare moments when there isn’t anything else to talk about, at least.

There have been whisperings about Romain down at Black Ices, who hasn’t been smiling like he usually does for weeks now, not since having been relegated to storeroom duties for a fortnight after one too many precarious signature sundaes went down customers’ front. The final straw was when ex-employee Fernando took his complaint straight to the manager, and Jerome had found himself covering for his friend, ending up rushed off his feet looking after the customers. Tongues start wagging that whatever his skills with coffee and ice cream, maybe he shouldn’t have come back to town at all; after all, he didn’t exactly make many friends last time…

Kimi on the other hand makes his intention to stay with the parlour (for a little while longer at least) known to a couple of friends, and before he knows it, Black Ices fills to bursting as almost the entire town comes to celebrate the news with champagne or rosewater sorbets and sparkler-topped creations that no one else in town could make quite like he does. (Heikki ends up staggering out the door on less than steady legs after a fourth champagne sorbet in a row, hiccupping and singing to himself, and even Kimi smiles to see that.) That too quiets the frankly bizarre rumours that, despite how everything ended last time, Café Ferrari were looking to poach the Iceman back again.

Talking of Café Ferrari, they’ve been kept busy as well of late, finding themselves having to open early and close late to cope with the extra demand… most of which turns out to come from the hordes of revellers in town for the Red Bull Bar’s legendary end-of-tourist-season party (when Seb’s special, the Abu Dhabi Surprise, along with their range of Brazilian cocktails, become suddenly popular). The bar has been gearing up for that for weeks already, with Toro Rosso holding a series of one-off, special club nights to announce Dan and Jean-Eric as their headline acts for the second year running, their joint sets keeping the bar heaving from before sunset to after sunrise.

Here and there too there have been mutterings that Adrian might be coming back to town, but the only person likely to know for sure is Lewis, and no one dares ask him about that. But those rumours certainly aren’t dampened with Jenson telling anyone who’ll listen about how Lewis has been acting strangely, spending a couple of weeks uncharacteristically anxious, and then mysteriously overexcited, bouncing all over the place, and leaving his shifts precisely on time each night. Jenson reckons he has a boyfriend, but being Lewis, just isn’t telling anyone. He’d ask Nico, but he’s been even busier since word of Michael’s retirement got out.

And anyway, Jenson has been kept busy enough with all the comings and goings at the MTCanteen. Martin has been talking of “expanding”, “rebranding”, “consolidating”, “moving forward”, and a host of other business-speak that could cover a multitude of sins (and probably does), and holding lengthy one-on-one meetings with both Jenson and Lewis, the former of whom stays remarkably tight-lipped about everything… until the advert for an apprentice goes out, and Jenson finds himself busy with masterclasses and practical tests for the eager young hopefuls who line up outside Martin’s office, CVs in hand and nervous smiles on their faces, and Jenson’s previously dull and Nico-free evenings are soon filled with tasting, critiquing, teaching, marking, and tasting again (just in case…). And whilst Jenson tells everyone, whether they’re listening or not, about the culinary delights and gastronomic abominations he’s seen that day, all the important details about the applicants themselves get lost under tales of intricate marzipan decorations or bitter, burnt caramels.

*

It was even earlier than the canteen usually opened, but almost all the staff were gathered together in the main space already, just as Martin’s memo had requested. Although his memo probably hadn’t asked for them to be perched on the countertops, seated _on_ the tables, or sat backwards on the chairs…

“Morning all,” Martin announces, appearing from the back office. Everyone perks up, those on tables and counters subtly sliding off to just casually lean against them. “Glad you could all make it.” Jenson glances around, and is about to pipe up and point out that Lewis isn’t there, but Martin is talking again, so he keeps his mouth shut. “Now, as you’re probably aware, it’s been a busy few months here, and we’ve got some big changes ahead of us. So, as promised, I have some announcements. To begin with, Lewis will be leaving us at the end of this month to pursue his career as a chef. We wish him the best of luck in facing new challenges in his position at the Silver Arrows.” Martin pauses while the staff process the news, fitting the pieces together in their heads, comprehension visibly dawning on a few of them, before he carries on at a more upbeat pace. “Now, Lewis’ departure has given us the chance to bring some new faces on board – Sergio Perez will be joining us from Chocolats de Sauber, and Jessica Michibiata will be filling our new cake decorating position. I hope that you’ll all give them a suitably warm welcome when they join us. You may have noticed though that we’re not directly replacing Lewis – instead we’re taking the opportunity to focus exclusively on the patisserie side of the business, and from the start of next year we’ll be rebranding as MTCakes.”

Jenson’s eyes go wide. “I think I love you…” he says, looking stunned and gleeful in equal measures, his head full of thoughts of a whole shop brimming with delicious sweet treats and warm breads, and Dave has to physically restrain him from leaping forward to give Martin a bear hug.

“Er, thank you, Jenson…?” Martin makes a strange, bewildered expression, but quickly recovers, ever the professional. “Until then though, it’s business as usual. So to work, everyone, we’ve got a long day ahead of us, as always.”

Martin watches his staff jump up and head off to their own jobs, everyone almost instantaneously focussed on the day’s work even though they’re all chattering and laughing together (and, inevitably, some are on their phones, passing on the news while it’s still hot), everybody excited for the year ahead already, and he finds that he’s proud of every single one of them. _With any luck,_ he smiles to himself, _next year should be a good one._

*

“You mean you _knew_ about Lewis and you didn’t tell me?” Jenson sounds more offended than he really has a right to be, but this is the second time in recent months that his boyfriend hasn’t told him something important, and he feels somewhat cheated out of gossip that he thinks should have been his to tell.

_“I wasn’t allowed to, Jens_.”

“Yes but you didn’t tell me last time either.”

Nico sighs, slightly tinny over the phone line. _“That’s just because I forgot. And I’ve already said sorry for that far more times than I should have to. Anyway, shouldn’t you be working, not on the phone?”_

Jenson waves his free hand dismissively, even though Nico isn’t there to see it. “I suppose. Alright. I’ll see you tonight?” Nico pauses a little too long before answering, and Jenson sighs, his voice going flat with disappointment. “Working late then I take it…”

_“Lewis is shadowing me tonight. Again. Sorry.”_

“Again?”

_“Yeah, has been for the past week or two.”_

“So _that’s_ where he’s been after work…” Jenson says, more to himself than Nico. “Okay, fine. Just let me know when you’re free. I haven’t seen you in weeks now.”

_“Sure, sure. Bye Jens.”_

“Bye Nico.”

As Jenson hangs up he finds himself wondering when talking to Nico became so tiring.


	57. Chapter 57

The tourist season is coming to an end, and it’s busier than ever in the Red Bull Bar. They’d had a few problematic nights in the past few weeks, with fridges breaking and lights playing up, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred the crowds, who tonight are packed into almost every corner of the bar, swarming around the edge of the dancefloor, squashed together on the sofas and in the booths, and whilst at this point in the evening the music is only there for background listening, the chattering and laughter almost drowns out Dan’s indie rock playlist entirely.

The crowds are so thick that Mark doesn’t have a hope of spotting Jenson, not that Mark even knows if he’s there - whilst it _is_ his and Nico’s night, Nico has been so busy these days (according to Jenson), what with Lewis shadowing him and Michael retiring, that Mark doesn’t even know if they’ll _be_ at the bar tonight. Who cares though - right now it’s too bloody busy for Mark to be wasting time thinking about things like that.

The crowds are still jammed up to the bar, but for now no one seems to be ordering, so Mark takes the chance to squeeze out and collect the empties that he knows will be piling up, just _waiting_ to all be knocked over in an enormous crash of broken glass, that _someone_ will have to clear up… Usually the waitresses would deal with all this, but tonight the VIP area is fully booked and they’re all busy serving tables upstairs, behind the plate glass windows that look down across the club itself and muffle the noise from the bar and dancefloor below, where Mark can see (among other Big Names in town) that the boss himself has company.

“Alright for some,” Mark mutters, and pushes past a crowd of excitable girls in terrifyingly tall heels to start his clearing up round.

*

Christian knows full well that he doesn’t fit in in his own bar - his private-school-head-boy-come-house-master dress sense of pink shirts, jumpers tied around his shoulders, and smart jackets has always been at odds with whatever happens to be in fashion for the clubbers and drinkers, and makes him look more suited to managing a country estate, not running the most popular and trendy (although even that word is probably out of fashion now too…) bar and club for miles around. Usually he can blend in a certain amount with his staff t-shirt, and hide behind the bar or in the back offices or storerooms, but tonight he’s not there for work, so he sticks out like that one parent who’s landed with chaperone duty for their kids and all their friends. But at least he’s not alone - Martin and Ross join him with looking like they’re out long past their bedtime, and whilst Stefano doesn’t look like he’s ended up in the club by _complete_ accident, he can’t help but look like any night out he has planned would involve dad-dancing… The surprise of the night though had been Monisha, who arrived looking practically _glamorous_ , and it had taken them all a moment to recognise her, and another moment to stop staring in surprise and remember to act like gentlemen…

“So, Lewis then?” Christian says, once their waitress Abbey has uncorked the champagne (to which the whole VIP area cheers, of course) and filled their glasses. It’s what they’ve all wanted to talk about since the moment they arrived, but etiquette had demanded they make pleasantries and all that first.

Martin shrugs, and Ross gives a sideways smile, as Christian looks between the two of them.

“It’s a risk,” Ross admits. “His kitchen training is a bit rusty, but he’s kept up pretty well with Nico so far, considering. But we won’t know really until it’s just the two of them. If it works, we could be on for another Michelin star next year. If it doesn’t…” he tilts his head sideways in an almost shrug, “well it doesn’t work.”

“Good luck.” Christian raises his glass, and Ross chinks it gently.

“You’ll need it,” Martin says. “He’s not easy to work with…”

“Is that why you hired Checo?” Monisha asks, laughing. “Because he really is one of the most easy-going kids I’ve ever met.”

Martin chuckles and shakes his head. “You know better than anyone he’s got more to offer than a polite smile, Monisha.”

“As do we,” Stefano adds, a raised eyebrow reminding them all of Sergio’s apprenticeship with the red-shirted baristas earlier that year. “Is a pity though, he would have made a very nice addition to our cafe.”

“Should have got to him sooner then!” Martin laughs.

“I don’t think Stefano needs to worry, though,” Christian says, topping up everyone’s glasses again, defusing any chance of tension between his friends. “It may not have been the easiest year at the cafe, but both of the baristas you’ve already got have been bloody impressive; they’ve taken everything in their stride. And I told you Felipe would be fine in the end, hm?”

Stefano smiles wryly, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t ever like to admit he might have been wrong.

“Anyway, what we all want to know now is what’s going to happen over at Chocolats de Sauber…” It’s Martin’s turn to top up glasses, filling Monisha’s first.

“Unlike you boys, it is not all secrets and intrigue in my shop. There was a good reason we took on an apprentice this year, and I am pretty certain he will get up to speed quickly enough. Though I have to admit we will miss Checo, of course. Esteban more than anyone…”

“Don’t say it, Christian,” Martin warns, “we’re out for a drink, I do _not_ want the mental images of what _anyone_ we discuss gets up to with each other, not this time…” Christian smiles into his champagne, but says nothing.

“So why the rebrand?” Monisha asks, dragging the conversation back on track.

“It seemed to work for Black Ices,” Martin answers. “And Ross knows just how good Jenson can be when you give him a chance to really shine,” the Maître D nodding in reply.

“Talking of Mr. Button,” Christian says, tilting his head in the direction of the bar below them, where the patissière is chatting animatedly with the club’s head barman.

“It looks like next year should be a good one,” Monisha says.

“To next year then,” Martin replies, raising his glass.

Christian shakes his head in mild exasperation. “ _This_ year isn’t over yet! We’ve got the end of season party to get through before I even _think_ about next year!”

“It is rude to refuse a toast, Christian,” Stefano tuts, and Christian relents.

“To a successful end of _this_ year, _and_ a successful next year, deal?”

“Deal. Cheers!”

*

Having done his round of the club, and whilst balancing stacks of glasses that reach far above his head, Mark’s eye is drawn to one of the high tables down the side of the club. Unlike the rest, it isn’t jam packed - it’s empty but for one person on the only stool, who’s almost hunched over the table, their forehead resting on their palms in the manner of someone clearly distressed but trying to marshal their emotions back into line, and who’s exuding _don’t even speak to me_ strongly enough to keep a radius of empty space around him despite the crowds. Mark’s been a barman long enough to know that people in tears or on the verge of punching someone (and he can’t tell which one this person is from this far away) are always trouble, and never good for business.

“You alright there mate?” Mark stops to pick up a couple of empty glasses from the table, adding them to his stack.

It’s not until the person looks up that Mark recognises him. “Nico? What’s up?”

Nico looks _furious_. Mark’s never seen him like this before - grumpy and pouty, yes, or sulking, but never _angry_.

“It’s the first time I’ve been able to make it out in weeks, and I get _that_ thrown in my face?! It’s, it’s… I don’t even have the words… He’s fucking _unbelievable_.”

_Shit, Jenson must have told him about Jake.._. It’s the only explanation.

It’s not something Mark’s well known for, but he knows Jenson would do the same for him, so Mark jumps to his friend’s defence as best he can.

“Look, mate, I don’t know exactly what he’s told you, but I can tell you straight what you mean to him, and I know that whatever happened with Jake, it wasn’t much and it sure as hell wasn’t serious…”

Nico’s head snaps up again and Mark finds that his sentence is over, whether he intended it to be or not.

_“Jake?!”_ Nico demands incredulously, his hands frozen either side of his head from where his forehead had been back resting on his palms, but his eyes now fixed on Mark. “What do you mean, _Jake?_ I was talking about _Sebastian_ , who Jenson is _flirting_ with in full view of _everyone_ at the bar…”

_Oh_ **_fuck_ ** _._

“Hang on,” Nico continues, his hands now in fists, resting on the edge of the table, and leaning forward, “do you mean Jake as in _David’s new boyfriend?_ As in the guy we played _strip fucking poker with_ the other week?!”

Mark can’t gather his thoughts into line fast enough to answer.

“Never mind,” Nico grinds out, “I’ll ask him myself.”

There’s no chance for any attempt at damage control before Nico is up and storming across to the bar, making a bee-line for a momentarily bemused Jenson, who smiles in delight to see Nico for the first time that evening, before he’s grabbed by the wrist and hauled to his feet by his boyfriend, who is currently _quivering_ with rage. But Jenson won’t be dragged around (at least not when he realises that Nico isn’t doing this for fun reasons), and pulls Nico to a halt.

The chatter starts to drop away as everyone stops to stare at the ensuing shouting match, and the music is quiet enough that it’s not long before almost everyone on that floor of the club can hear every word, until Christian decides that public bust-ups aren’t good for business, appearing beside the bar and motioning to Heikki that he should escort the pair of them off the premises. Now.

“I can see myself out,” Nico growls through gritted teeth as Heikki places his hand on Nico’s shoulder, before he storms off, leaving Jenson jogging after him, pleading with him to for god’s sake, let him explain…

*

Neither of them get beyond the waterside behind the club before the argument breaks out again, the harbour deceptively peaceful and the sky fading through shades of purple as night falls and the shouting begins once more.

“You _kissed_ him Jenson! You kissed him, didn’t tell me, and let me spend half the night chatting to him being nice to him when you’d _fucking kissed him!”_

“It didn’t mean anything, Nico, it didn’t. It just, happened, and that was it, and now he’s with David and it’s not like I’m going to mess with their relationship…”

“Oh but you’ll mess with _ours?!”_

“That’s not what I meant, Nico, please don’t overreact like this…”

“Overreact?! _This_ is _not_ overreacting. _You. Cheated. On. Me._ This is a perfectly _fucking_ reasonable reaction.”

“It was only a kiss! Well, a couple of kisses, but that was it!”

“So was it one, or more?” Nico demands. “Come on, I want to know _exactly_ what happened.”

Jenson can’t quite stand still, like he can’t quite restrain the urge to take Nico in his arms and just hold him, like he usually does when Nico’s upset, but that isn’t going to help, not this time, because this time it’s his fault, and it _hurts_ , because he of all people shouldn’t be making Nico hurt like this, and…

“Jenson, what was it?!”

“It was just a couple of kisses, I swear. It was at the Forum. I… we were very drunk, and, it just happened, ok? Just, you weren’t there and you never seem to be there, and… It was just a couple of kisses, Nico, that was it. It didn’t change what I feel about you, and it’s not going to happen again, I promise, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you, or upset you, or anything like that because _I love you.”_

Nico doesn’t reply, and it breaks Jenson’s heart.

“I’m sorry, Nico, I’m really sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Nico sighs, all the fight suddenly going out of him, and he sits down heavily on the bench.

There’s silence between them, the water lapping at the edge of the quay, and the gentle background thump of the music from the club behind them.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore Jens. Because if I can’t trust you around people you’ve only just met, how can I trust you around the people you see all the time? ”

“…What?” For the second time this evening, Jenson is completely confused.

“Really? You honestly haven’t realised?”

“Nico, I have no idea what you’re talking about anymore. I really don’t…”

Nico puts his head back in his hands, and almost laughs, and Jenson can’t help but panic that he’s missed something crucial, but he can’t think what it might be.

“Never mind then. It doesn’t matter. Not now.”

There’s something horribly final about that sentence.

Nico stands up, “I’m going home, Jenson.” He exhales heavily again. “I’ll call you, ok? Because we need to talk, but I can’t do that now.”

“I’m sorry, Nico, I really, really am…”

“I know, Jens. And I’m sorry too.”

As Nico walks up the steps to the street above them, Jenson wonders why this shit always seems to happen to him on the waterfront.


	58. Chapter 58

Mark doesn’t quite know how he gets through the rest of his shift, because neither Jenson nor Nico reappear, but it’s too busy for him to blag an early finish and go check on his friend. And more importantly, apologise for the next _thousand years…_

It may be almost 6am when the club finally closes, but Mark goes straight over to Jenson’s place. The lights are still on, so he dredges up some courage and knocks, fully expecting to either be punched in the face harder than he’s ever had the misfortune to experience or at least to have the door slammed in his face the moment Jenson sees who it is; the complete _idiot_ who’s just ruined his relationship…

“Nico?” Jenson asks, pulling the door open probably faster than the hinges were designed for, and sounding pitifully hopeful, eyes red and skin blotchy. “Oh, Mark.” His voice is completely flat, and he just slumps against the doorframe, not looking like he’s got the strength to be punching or slamming anything.. “You ok?”

Of _course_ Jenson asks if Mark’s ok, of course he does, and it makes trying to explain himself feel like the most selfish thing Mark has ever done.

 _“Christ,_ mate, I’m so sorry, I was just trying to help, and, ah _Jesus_ …” But then he finds he has an armful of visibly heartbroken Jenson to deal with, and doing things is, well, something Mark can do…

Having supported Jenson back into the flat and onto the sofa (and taken away the bottle of unnamed alcohol on the coffee table that he suspects wasn’t even open earlier that night…), Mark can’t help but continue gabbling out a desperate apology.

“Just Nico was so angry and I couldn’t see what else it might be… Fuck, this is why I keep my mouth shut usually… I’m a fucking useless excuse for a best friend.”

Jenson shrugs despondently. “Wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. That was all me…” He puts his head in his hands, and Mark looks around desperately for a tissue box. He finds the box, but it doesn’t contain any tissues - they all seem to be either spilling out of the waste paper bin, heaped on the floor by the sofa, or scattered over the coffee table, between what looks like every single photo of Jenson and Nico that he had ever framed (and that was quite a few).

“What was he angry about to start with?” Jenson asks, still trying to fit the evening’s events together in his head, his voice muffled from beneath his hands (but thankfully not crying - Mark wouldn’t know what to do there…).

“He said he just meant you were flirting with Seb… I don’t know if there was anything in particular, or…”

“I was just talking to him…” Jenson implores, as if explaining himself to Mark would help in some way. “And Seb flirts with everyone, doesn’t he? And if it bothered him that much, why didn’t he tell me?” He looks up momentarily, then slumps again. “I don’t even know. I don’t know anything right now.”

“I wouldn’t know either,” Mark says. “I don’t really pay much attention to him.”

Jenson just shakes his head. “I’m so confused…”

“That’s because you’re drunk and exhausted, mate,” Mark says. “C'mon, let’s get you to bed. That’s probably the best idea.”

Jenson lets himself be somewhat manhandled onto his feet and towards his own bedroom, making a brief detour via the bathroom whilst Mark goes around shutting curtains and tidying things up as best he can.

In all the years they’ve known each other, even after David left, Mark had never got to the point of having to put Jenson to bed, let alone tucking him in under his duvet.

“Can you stay?” Jenson asks, knowing how pathetic it sounds, but really not caring right now.

“I guess so…”

“Just until I fall asleep?” _I don’t want to be alone right now_ goes unsaid.

“Sure thing.”

Mark settles himself on top of the duvet on the other side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. With Jenson in his current state, he won’t have to wait long. But he might stick around longer, just in case.

*

Fernando isn’t expecting Mark to turn up today, certainly not this early in the morning when he’s had a busy shift the night before, but the café has only been open for a few minutes when the barman appears at the till, looking like he hasn’t slept at all, or shaved, or even washed…

“Mark?”

“Promise me that if anything worries you, or if I do anything that upsets you, promise me you’ll tell me,” he demands, with a strange twist in his voice.

“Si, si, of course I promise.”

“Good, good… Fuck _,_ mate, I’m not losing you over something stupid.”

“Mark, you are not going to lose…”

Mark doesn’t let Fernando finish his sentence before he leans across the counter, grabs the front of Fernando’s shirt, and pulls him in for a kiss, Fernando having to stand full on tiptoes and support his weight on his hands on the edge of the counter, until Mark lets go again.

 _“I love you,_ don’t you _ever_ forget that mate.”

Fernando is left blinking in confusion as Mark turns round and leaves again without giving Fernando a chance to reply (or even ordering a coffee). The Spaniard turns to his colleague, who is just watching in surprise from the other end of the tills and machines, his morning coffee hovering in mid-air between the saucer and his mouth.

“What was that about?” Felipe asks, remembering to put his coffee down.

Fernando shrugs, baffled. “I do not know…”

*

“Rob?”

_“Ey up sunshine, whatcha doing calling me at work?”_

“I wanted to say I love you.”

Rob laughs down the line. _“You tell me that every day! What’s the matter?”_

It sounds silly now Rob’s put it like that, but something about how strangely Mark was acting has got to Felipe.

“Mark came into the café to say it to Fernando. He does not do things like that. Ever. So I thought to call and say it to you.”

_“You don’t have to compete in everything, you know. Just in coffee.”_

“Is not that, but…”

_“Whatever it is that’s worrying you, we’re ok, I promise. Always will be. Ok?”_

“Ok.”

_“Ok then. See you after work?”_

“For sure.”

_“And Felipe? I love you too, baby.”_


	59. Chapter 59

To say that it hadn’t been the easiest of years for Caterham Merchant Trading was somewhat of an understatement. Who would have thought that an alcohol company could struggle so much in a town whose reputation was built on wild parties and living the high life? But orders had been hard to come by even in the height of the tourist season, and as summer became autumn and the nights drew in and cooled Heikki and Vitaly had found that their afternoons in Marussia doing paperwork and making phonecalls were increasingly being spent idly people-watching and more than metaphorically twiddling their thumbs in the quiet, even ever-chatty Heikki beginning to run out of things to witter on about to keep their spirits up.

Or at least, they would have been in Marussia, but as the traders’ fortunes had declined the restaurant’s seemed to improve, and before long they were looking for a new venue in which to conduct their business. Williams, whilst not exactly heaving, was just that little bit too busy these days (which Vitaly found strange, because hadn’t Bruno said his shifts had been cut?), the Balti was _definitely_ too busy, Sauber didn’t exactly have tables to spare in their miniscule café, even the Lotus Parlour was out, since Vitaly didn’t exactly see eye to eye with the manager after his time there. In the end the only place quiet enough turned out to be HRTapas, but the mood there was even grimmer than Heikki and Vitaly’s had become - Pedro told them about how they’d been losing money for months, and that their only hope of having jobs next year was if their dishwasher, Ma Qinghua, could convince his family to buy the place out and turn it into a takeaway…

At their worst - on the first grey and cool day of autumn - the two traders had found themselves in talks with their new boss about working purely on commission, because even their salaries were more than the company could afford.

“I can’t do that,” Heikki had admitted afterwards, as they walked down the main street together, the fallen leaves tumbling around their ankles and crunching underfoot. “I don’t have anything to fall back on…” Vitaly at least could call his family if he was in real difficulty, and although they weren’t the easiest of people to convince to help out, Heikki didn’t even have anyone like that at all. “And I won’t, either. That’s not how I want to live my life.”

With no end in sight, Vitaly’s worries had started to keep him awake at nights, finding himself absentmindedly channel hopping in the living room in the early hours rather than staring at the ceiling and letting his head work itself into even tighter knots, and feeling guilty about keeping Bruno awake with his tossing and turning, until Bruno, having woken to an empty bed too many times in the past week, had wandered in, bleary-eyed, and sat himself down next to Vitaly, taken the remote control away, and slowly coaxed every single worry out of him, encouraging him and reassuring him only at those points where it didn’t feel hollow and blindly optimistic (because whilst Bruno looked on the bright side almost permanently, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a realist).

Today though is different. Today Vitaly has been almost bouncing, unable to keep his ridiculous smile off his face; because after weeks of negotiations he had finally closed their biggest deal to date; to supply all the vodka (and a few other spirits) for the end of season party at the Red Bull Bar. It would have been an outstanding deal at any point of the year, but in their current situation it’s nothing short of a lifesaver, and with any luck would see them through to the new year.

So now Vitaly and Heikki are back in the window of a more traditionally quiet Marussia, and celebrating with Timo and Charles (who, after their brief foray into the world of Popular Restaurants, were back to having nothing better to do). Outside the sky is completely dark and the air chilly, but inside it’s warm and bright and cosy, even if the chairs are a little worn, the tables slightly marked, and not all the cutlery quite matches.

“Perhaps this is why we never make any money…” Heikki wonders aloud, staring at the expensive bottle he’s holding - their second of the evening. Then he shrugs, cracks it open and pours them all a glass anyway.

“Perhaps this is why _we_ never make any money!” Timo retorts, “because there’s always a bunch of rowdy drunks in our front window!”

“Perhaps it is because you are drinking with them,” Vitaly suggests, which earns him a rude gesture in reply.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else tonight then?” Timo asks, once the various insults and eloquent sign language have been exchanged. “The Red Bull maybe?”

Vitaly shakes his head, but his excuse about not overindulging in front of their new clients is buried by Heikki’s (mostly correct) assertion that he just wants to get home and see Bruno. Of course he does - he’s been looking forward to seeing the immense pride on Bruno’s face when he tells him that _he’d_ closed the deal since the moment it had been finalised that morning - he’d be delighted for him.

“Ok, yes, perhaps,” he admits, trying (and failing) to keep the soppy smile from his face and the colour from his cheeks. There’s another round of teasing, rude gestures, insults, and stolen shots between the three of them (Charles just leaning back in his chair with his arms folded), until Vitaly’s phone buzzes.

His last message sits on screen, Bruno’s reply now sitting underneath.

**_New text message (1) received:  
_ ** _From: Vitaly_

_When are you home tonight? I have good news to tell you!_

From: Bruno

Just got in. Later than planned, sorry.

“You off then?” Timo asks as Vitaly downs his shot, already working on his reply. “Vitaly?” He waves his hand in front of Vitaly’s face, who jerks and looks up in surprise, having stopped paying attention to everyone else as soon as his phone had gone.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I am. But I will see you tomorrow. And,” he adds, whilst standing up, “perhaps, we can go to the Red Bull party? I am told that there will be good vodka…” his voice conveying the wink at the end of his sentence, and as he heads for the door he’s accompanied by the sound of Heikki’s laughter, more carefree than he’s heard it in months, and he smiles again.

Jacket now on and zipped up against the cool night air, Vitaly is just about to let himself out into the street when someone calls his name from behind.

Charles is leaning just this side of the archway that leads back into the main restaurant, trying to look casual.

“What would I have to do to join you?” he asks.

“Join us?” Vitaly echoes, wondering what he’s on about.

“As a trader. Who do I have to apply to?”

Vitaly’s expression stays almost as confused. “Why do you want to work with us?”

Charles shrugs. He looks far more confident than the quiet little waiter from the start of the year, who through pure boredom had started hanging out with the traders as they worked at their table by the window. “I think I could be good. I have friends in the wine business, so… I could widen your market…”

Vitaly narrows his eyes slightly. Charles doesn’t flinch.

Then Vitaly tilts his head to one side, putting his hands in his pockets.. “I will ask if maybe we have room for one more. And I will mention your name.”

“Thank you. You will not regret it,” Charles grins, giving a throwaway salute and vanishing back into the restaurant.

*

The flat is strangely quiet when Vitaly gets back - he’s come to expect Bruno to be playing music of some kind through his pride and joy of a sound system, whatever the hour, not to open the front door to almost complete darkness, only the light from what must be the tv sending spiked shadows flickering into the front hall.

Vitaly steps quietly through into the living room to see Bruno sat on the floor in front of the sofa, controller in hand, completely immersed in some military style shooter, the sounds of stereotyped army shouting and the rattle and crack of simulated gunfire alongside Bruno’s frustrated muttering.

There’s a bang, and Bruno’s character is thrown backwards, the screen changing to an out of body view of the “enemy” running past the body, now sprawled on the ground.

“Oh come _on!”_ Bruno demands, throwing his arms out, before swearing in Portuguese and all but hurling his controller across the room. Then he sighs, and his head drops to his drawn up knees, where he sits for a moment, barely moving.

“Bruno?” Vitaly ventures.

Bruno’s head snaps up, blinking to refocus on the figure in the doorway, who hasn’t moved since arriving. He’s never seen Bruno this agitated before, and he’s not so much of an idiot as to think that it’s just the game that’s wound him up so.

“Vitaly, hi… sorry, I’m not in the best mood tonight…” He starts to push himself up from the floor, but Vitaly interrupts him.

“No no, you stay, I will join,” and before Bruno can get any further Vitaly has folded himself somewhat awkwardly into a sitting position on the floor beside him, and pulled him close against his chest.

“Your hair is long,” he says, as softly as he can make one of his typically blunt statements, that those who know him interpret as the gentle teasing and sort-of compliments that he actually means them as, tucking his fingers into the tufts at the base of Bruno’s neck. But Bruno doesn’t seem quite tuned in tonight.

“Sorry. I’ll cut it soon.”

Vitaly looks almost horrified (not that Bruno can see, with his head leant onto Vitaly’s shoulder and with his eyes closed) - the last thing he wants is for Bruno to think he’s criticising him, least of all when he seems so down.

“No, no, I only say. I like, yes? It is soft, and…”

He stops talking when he feels Bruno smile against his shoulder.

“Your English gets terrible when you are worried,” he says, looking up through just one eye. Vitaly looks back down at him, affecting mild disapproval (but still looking concerned - he can’t hide that from Bruno of all people).

“You tell me what is wrong and perhaps I will not worry anymore.”

“If I tell you then you will just worry more.”

Vitaly’s expression changes to properly unimpressed.

“You cannot tell me that there is something wrong, and say that to tell me will make me worry, and then tell me _not_ to worry, because now I will worry more!”

A combination of his logic and the way his voice gets higher makes Bruno chuckle, and Vitaly doesn’t have the words for how relieved even that half-hearted attempt at a laugh makes him feel. Literally so, in English at least, so he blurts out something in Russian that’s probably meant to be endearing, and pulls Bruno even closer.

“Alright,” Bruno relents. “I will tell you my bad news, and then you can tell me your good news to cheer me up.”

“No, you tell me your bad news after, then we can work to fix it.”

Bruno knows better than to argue with Vitaly when he has that stubborn look going on, and he’s too tired for that anyway right now. He sits himself up and sighs, trying to smile a bit and taking hold of Vitaly’s hands.

“Ok then, you start.”

Vitaly feels a little bad about the way he can’t help but smile again, but it _is_ the best news in a long time. “I closed the deal with Red Bull for the party,” he says, feeling shy about it now as well and looking at the floor.

When he looks up, Bruno is grinning almost exactly as he’d imagined, all bright pride and selfless delight, and it makes his chest feel warm and full. And when Bruno kisses him, that’s perfect.

“You are wonderful,” he smiles against Vitaly’s mouth. “And I told you it would be ok, that you would turn it around.”

Vitaly shrugs, still smiling, lips still almost touching, and all he wants to do is kiss him again. But now is not the time to get carried away. “Your turn now…” he says, leaning back, and Bruno’s smile falls away.

“I do not want to ruin your moment,” he tries, but Vitaly is having none of that. “Ok, ok.” He sighs. “I’m losing my job. They gave me two months’ notice.”

Vitaly looks _livid_ (and it makes Bruno very glad indeed that he’s never likely to get on the wrong side of that temper…)

“What?! Why??” Bruno doesn’t appear to have an answer. “Ach, they are…” and whilst Bruno doesn’t understand the word that finishes that sentence, he knows it won’t be polite… He’s used some choice language himself already this evening. “They do not know how much you do for them, and what they are losing!”

“No, they don’t,” Bruno answers, and for the first time Vitaly has ever heard, he sounds bitter. “They have no idea how hard I worked for them. Or how much they are going to miss me.”

“There are plenty of places in town that would be lucky to have you,” Vitaly insists. “And, yes, yes… Heikki said that Jules told Charles that Force India Balti is looking for someone new… We should start now, you need new, er, what is it, CV? Yes, and letter, and…” Vitaly is already getting to his feet, but Bruno grabs his wrist and pulls him back down, fixing him with a fond gaze.

“Tomorrow, Vitaly, tomorrow. Tomorrow you can help me all day if you want. But right now, there are other things I would rather be doing.”

On the other side of the room the tv plays to itself, the background action carrying on in sepia behind the options menu; forgotten for now. The light from the screen dances in Bruno’s eyes, making them sparkle, and catches on his lips, which shine slightly from where he just wetted them. Vitaly’s eyes flick between the two, unable to decide which he’d rather look at.

“We will find you somewhere,” he says quietly, his voice a little more husky and raw than a moment ago, but still strong; determined and protective all at the same time. “You always tell me I will be ok, now I tell you that you will be ok. You are not finished in this town. I will hire you myself if I have to.”

Bruno really does laugh at that. “I don’t doubt it. But that is my last resort, ok?” Vitaly nods, eyes locked with Bruno’s.

When Vitaly kisses him, Bruno’s eyes fall shut, his hand moving to the back of Vitaly’s neck to take a tight, almost desperate handful of his collar as they just kiss, closed lips pressed together, and Bruno gradually relaxes into it, the tension of the day that had been locked into his shoulders already starting to fade away. Then, as Vitaly’s hand rests first gently, and then more possessively on Bruno’s hip, his tongue slips out, gently prising Vitaly’s lips open, before Vitaly’s hand tucks itself under Bruno’s work tshirt, running over the smooth, warm skin of his back until his arm is looped around Bruno’s waist, and he pulls him onto his lap, straddling his thighs, allowing them to get closer and their kiss to get deeper.

Bruno traces his fingers over Vitaly’s stomach, running up onto his chest and pushing his tshirt upwards until it bunches up at the top of his chest, taking reassurance in the familiarity of the muscles beneath his touch, whilst Vitaly’s hands continue to roam over Bruno’s back and downwards, squeezing his arse, and making Bruno laugh breathily into their kiss, before he breaks it and gives Vitaly a mischievous look, scrunching up his nose and eyeing up Vitaly’s bare chest. Together they then tug off Vitaly’s tshirt, discarding it beside them somewhere, briefly allowing Bruno to drop light, playful kisses across his collarbone until Vitaly loses patience and yanks Bruno’s tshirt upwards as well, both of them making short work of that. But before Bruno can drop it unceremoniously onto the floor, alongside his own, Vitaly takes it from him, screwing it up into a ball with both hands.

“You can do better,” he insists, eyes wide, and still holding the shirt, “and you will.” Then he throws it across the room, to land as far away from them as possible.

Bruno laughs gently, bringing his hands up to cup Vitaly’s face.

“I know,” he replies, and kisses him softly.

It doesn’t stay soft for long though, and soon Bruno is rocking their hips together in his lap, starting slow; almost an unconscious movement, but picking up a rhythm as their kiss gets stronger, hungrier, messier, breath coming harder as want begins to build inside them, growing and tightening into something more urgent. Vitaly finds himself pulling Bruno down harder into his lap, incapable of stifling the groan as he does so, whilst Bruno’s hands move back to his cheeks, holding his face once more as their kiss breaks down into increasingly shorter, sloppier kisses, until they stop entirely, noses touching, lips still almost together, eyes now open and watching each other.

Bruno lets one hand drop away, and smiles wickedly just before Vitaly’s eyes fall shut and his head drops back with a low moan - Bruno’s hand is now squeezing him through the thick denim of his jeans, and now rubbing, already reducing Vitaly to incoherent noises which certainly don’t get quieter when Bruno starts kissing down his throat, sucking ever so gently on the skin and squirming in his lap, unable not to join in with his own, lower noises.

From the way things are going it doesn’t look like they’re going to be leaving the floor anytime soon, because moments later Bruno has already lost patience with the layers of fabric between them, pulling at buttons and pushing insistently at jeans and boxers. He’s almost immediately mirrored by Vitaly, both of them shuffling to shove material downwards, until Bruno can release Vitaly’s cock, the air cool against it for the few seconds before he feels Bruno’s fingers wrap firmly around it, starting up a maddeningly slow pace despite Vitaly jerking involuntarily up into the touch, making him stutter out broken half words that Bruno doesn’t understand, his head falling forward onto Bruno’s shoulder as he chooses that moment to grip a little tighter and stroke a little faster. The feeling coiling below Vitaly’s stomach builds, grows, and takes over, leaving him incapable of doing anything other than fumble at the front of Bruno’s trousers to eventually match Bruno’s rhythm on him, and closing off every sensation other than the grip of Bruno’s hand on his cock, Bruno’s other hand in his hair, the heat of Bruno’s breath against his mouth, Bruno’s weight in his lap, Bruno’s length, hot and thick in his hand, the sight of Bruno’s eyes fluttering shut as he pulls on his bottom lip with his teeth before his head falls back and his breaths start coming in heavier, more ragged puffs…

“Even if no one else wants you,” Vitaly pants, the words coming out in thick, fragmented syllables as he tries to fit them together in his head with the limited concentration he has left, “I always will. Always.”

A unevenly exhaled whimper and a final rock forwards with his hips is all Bruno can reply with, meeting his eyes once more, and Vitaly pulls him as close as he can, holding on just long enough to feel Bruno twitch in his hand, wet on his fingers as he comes apart in Vitaly’s arms, shuddering and breathless, before Vitaly lets himself go, coming all over his own stomach with a gasped whine of a cry, the two of them clinging to each other, panting, still on the living room floor.

It takes them a little while to get their breath back again, Bruno laughing shakily and kissing Vitaly once more.

“Sometimes,” he says, when he can just about stagger to his feet on stiff legs, lending a hand to haul Vitaly after him, “we act like teenagers…”

“You cannot blame me,” Vitaly smiles as close to coyly as he could probably ever manage, kissing Bruno’s hand.

“How about you take me to bed, and we’ll see if we still have the _stamina_ of teenagers,” Bruno suggests, not letting go of Vitaly’s hand. “And if not, there’s always tomorrow morning!”

Bruno was always the one with the good ideas, and when he’s looking at Vitaly like that again, there’s no way he was ever going to say no.

*

In the now-abandoned living room the menu on the screen still waits for Bruno’s attention, the light pulsing as the highlighted option blinks to itself, asking its question to the dark.

**Continue?**

**[Retry]** Quit

In the morning Bruno will notice it, once they’re up and dressed and ready for the day.

“One more go, hm?” he’ll say, picking up the controller with a determined smile. “I’m not giving up yet…”


	60. Chapter 60

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you were unhappy?”

“I tried, Jenson, but you never listen… It’s like if you’re happy then everyone else is, end of.”

“I wasn’t happy, Nico, I was barely seeing you anymore.”

“Then I should ask you the same thing? Why didn’t you tell me, instead of jumping on the first person to give you some attention??”

Jenson winces visibly. “I didn’t want to ruin the time we had together by complaining, or making you feel bad about being busy… And the few times I tried you shut down on me, and acted like I was being selfish…”

“I’ve been busy, you know that!”

“ _I_ used to be that busy, but I always used to make time for you! But it’s been like you stopped thinking about me…”

“While you just think about everyone else first, especially yourself!”

“Nico, you know that’s not true,” Jenson implores. “I’ve always thought about you.”

“Really Jens? You’ve done a great job showing it…” Nico hurls back, sarcasm dripping from his voice, Jenson flinching at the tone.

“I fucked up once, and I’m sorry, please believe me that I’m sorry. I love you, Nico, I’ve never stopped loving you,” he pleads, and Nico stops to look at him for a moment, looking so distressed that Jenson can’t help but feel hopeful, because all’s not lost if Nico still loves him, is it?

“I love you too, Jens… but…”

At that word all of Jenson’s hope evaporates, leaving him with nothing but an agonising twisting feeling, like Nico’s quite literally ripped out his heart, and he doesn’t remember how to breathe without it catching and hurting.

“I don’t know if that’s enough anymore. I don’t think it is.”

A thousand separate replies form on the tip of Jenson’s tongue, tripping over each other so that all he comes out with is a short series of stutters, which die out before Nico’s exhausted but resolute expression.

“Tell me what I can do to fix it, Nico, I’ll do anything, anything at all, anything you want.” Jenson doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds. _“Please.”_

Nico shakes his head. “There isn’t anything, Jenson. I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches, and it feels so very empty. They’re over, actually over, and the realisation makes Jenson feels numb.

Neither of them even move.

“When did this happen to us, Nico?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. But I’m sorry it had to end like this.”

Nico steps forward, placing his hand on Jenson’s chest, and rises up onto tiptoes to place a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek. Jenson’s whole chest tightens even more painfully, and on top of the empty, sinking feeling he’s already got he thinks he might be sick. He wants to wrap his arms around Nico, hold him against him, never ever let go, but the moment’s passed and Nico is stepping back.

“Because it was good, Jens. It really was.”

He doesn’t say goodbye, or anything like that – he just smiles sadly, and turns and walks away.

*

Mark doesn’t usually give a toss about idle gossip, about the intricacies of other people’s arguments and things like that, and certainly isn’t one to ask other people about such details, but he _needs_ to know what happened with Jenson and Nico, and he can’t bring himself to ask Jenson directly (only knowing that Jenson had turned up in the bar that evening, said precisely nothing, drunk until he could barely stand, and then left). So Mark resorts to calling Lewis of all people, who, despite not knowing _all_ the details, both “reassures” Mark (if that’s the right word…) that it’s not just when Mark’s in the Canteen that Jenson seems distant and uncharacteristically quiet, and confirms Mark’s fears; that Jenson and Nico are over.

(Lewis doesn’t tell Mark though how Nico had come straight to his house and sobbed for three hours, blurting out disjointed snippets of the last two arguments – that being the only way Lewis had any idea what had happened. Or how the next morning Nico had seemed so normal that Lewis would have been worried, had he not been there after Nelson too, and had seen it all before – how Nico dealt with things like this in his own time, on his own terms, and wholly in private, ignoring what conclusions people might jump to because of that. When you came from one of the Big Families in this town you learnt what you needed to keep behind closed doors…)

*

In some ways, it was like nothing had changed, like Nico and Jenson had never happened – Jenson was back at the Red Bull on his customary night, at his old barstool, by himself. But really, if things had reset to any point it was further back than that, back to when David had first left town; because Jenson has the same distracted, lost expression that Mark remembers far too well, and is drinking probably too much, with his friends, colleagues, and the bar staff practically taking it in turns to confiscate his phone before he tries to drunk-call Nico, water down his drinks, and even half-carry him home if he’d still managed to have too much by the time the bar starts to really fill with party-hungry revellers.

Mark knows it will pass, that Jenson will pick himself up again eventually, but that doesn’t mean it’s pleasant to see his best friend in this state, and be helpless to do anything about it. He even considers going to see Nico, to try and convince him to give Jenson another chance, but after his last attempt to help out, he decides that even vaguely entertaining that thought is an awful, _awful_ idea.

Jenson will be ok, once something happens to make him pick himself up again.

Mark hopes that a something happens sooner rather than later though.


	61. Chapter 61

Of course there hadn’t been just the one barman at the Red Bull that night. Mark hadn’t been the only one to have spent the rest of his shift in a constant tailspin of worry and a chronic helpless feeling, or to be carrying on with his work on autopilot, knowing that there was nothing he could do in the situation that had been set in motion. And he wasn’t the only one so distracted and clumsy that the number of dropped shakers, broken bottles of expensive spirits, and drinks spilt down customers’ fronts was giving Christian a headache.

Mark though had the luxury that Seb didn’t have - of being involved, of having even the slightest control over the situation. He could go and find Jenson the moment the bar closed, find out what had happened, and offer comfort to his friend. He could feel guilty for what he’d done, and ask for forgiveness. He didn’t have to sit and watch it all play out in front of him, powerless to do anything about it, like being caught up in some horrible nightmare, without any right to get himself involved in even the slightest way. Seb just had to go home, toss and turn and not sleep much (if at all), and wait for news.

But Mark isn’t exactly forthcoming with news, and Sebastian knows he’s not entitled to ask the questions he wants to ask, not beyond a generic, “How’s Jenson?” when Mark comes into the bar the next day.

The answer to that though makes Seb feel even worse: Mark just shakes his head, his lips pursed together in a grim line.

As the day passes Seb’s acute awareness of his complete uselessness in the circumstances spirals in on itself, the anger at himself and guilt about that fact starting to knot in his head with the worry about Jenson, and tangling up with feeling ashamed and angry at himself some more when he realises that he’s making this about himself somehow (although he’s too busy worrying about everything else to notice that he’s never been concerned about that in the past…), and mixed up with even more anger, this time at Mark for causing all of this. Mark’s heavy silence and short temper certainly don’t help in the slightest either, and neither do his occasional suspicious sideways glances (that make Seb worry first that his concern is so obvious as to be suspicious, and then that perhaps it _is_ his fault somehow, wracking his brains for a possible reason), until the atmosphere in the bar is thick and claustrophobic, and time seems to drag, second by sticky, slow second.

Seb wants to go home before his shift has even started.

Then Jenson arrives, and it’s even worse. No one says anything to each other, Jenson just sat at his seat and staring at the surface of the bar, Mark (who seems to be walking on eggshells) paying for all of Jenson’s drinks. The tension and misery in the air is almost suffocating, Jenson’s silent depression becoming more silent and more depressed as the minutes pass, and it’s exhausting.

It breaks Seb’s heart to see Jenson like this, hopeless and glassy eyed, and it makes his feeling of utter uselessness worse, as well as stoking a full-on fury towards Nico for _daring_ to hurt Jenson like this (Didn’t Nico know what he was doing? How could he _not_ \- Jenson didn’t exactly hide his feelings… How could anyone be that callous to someone they claimed they loved?), and fuelling his anger towards Mark for ruining everything that had made Jenson happy. (To add insult to injury though Jenson doesn’t seem to be angry at Mark at all, and that doesn’t improve Seb’s sullen mood either, because _how the hell is that fair?_ Had he been the one to tell Jenson there sure as hell wouldn’t have been a happy ending there, and _stop it Seb, you’re making this about you again…)_ All Seb really wants to do is to be able to go over to Jenson and hug him, and promise him that everything will be ok, but he can’t even do that. And it _hurts._

By the time his shift finishes, and he can leave the sinkhole of despair and guilt that was the bar that night (even after Jenson had left) and head back into his apartment, Seb discovers he’s having thoughts that he never, ever would have expected.

He wants Nico to get back together with Jenson. And right now he wants it more than he’s wanted anything ever in his life. More even than he wants Jenson to be his.

He doesn’t go straight to bed when he gets home. (There’s no way he could sleep anyway.) Instead he stays in his kitchen, alternating perching on the very edge of his worktops with jumping off to pace back and forth and bury his hands in his own hair as he tries to figure this out, talking to and arguing with himself. Because _what the fuck?_ He’s done nothing other than want Jenson all to himself for years, and at the first sign of a possible opportunity he’s actively wishing it all away, even to the point of considering going to find Nico himself… And this is _him_ \- his reputation for not stopping until he gets exactly what he wants is based very much in fact (even if it sometimes can take a while). This isn’t like him at all…

After an excessive amount of time spent fretting though Seb reckons he’s figured it out. It’s because he’s just desperate to make Jenson okay again, and since knows he can’t help Jenson himself right now, he’ll take any solution. And Nico would be the best and most efficient solution (Seb is German after all…) to bringing the smiley, happy, bouncy Jenson back that Seb adored so very much. Because a Jenson quite that miserable wasn’t going to be interested in him. Yes that was it, definitely it… Wasn’t it…?


	62. Chapter 62

_Beep. Beep._

“So I hear Jenson is single again these days…” Jaime says with a knowing smirk, not stopping with swiping Seb’s shopping across the scanner and packing it into the brown paper grocery bags.

Seb doesn’t look up, he just shrugs with one shoulder and digs around in his wallet for his money, trying not to react.

Jaime stops his scanning. “Hang on, aren’t you meant to be delighted about that?”

“How am I meant to be delighted when Jenson looks like the world is ending?” Seb can’t help but almost wail, and from down one aisle Lucas stops his stock-checking to look over his shoulder at the two of them with a raised eyebrow.

Jaime starts scanning again before Paul notices the silence and comes over to check that everything is ok. “Ah…”

“I don’t know what to do, Jaime… You haven’t seen him, your set doesn’t start until he’s left, but he’s not…” Seb runs out of words.

“Can’t fancy the guy when he’s moping, eh?”

Thankfully Jaime is pretty much immune to Seb’s glares by now.

“Shit…” Apparently Seb is genuinely pretty upset by this. _Huh, interesting…_ “Have you considered telling him anyway? You know, to let him know he’s not completely unloved.”

“I don’t want to be his rebound, Jaime. Or the drunken fuck because he thinks no one else will have him.”

Jaime shrugs. “I never was the guy to ask for advice with these things. But look on the bright side. When he gets over Nico, which he will,” Jaime adds firmly, before Seb can interrupt, “you’ll be right there waiting.”

Seb doesn’t look convinced.

_“Cosas del corazón_ aside, you still have to pay. That’s thirteen fifty three. And no you cannot _pay me with a drink tomorrow night._ Money, now. I don’t have the cash to bail you, Mr Superstar Barman…”


	63. Chapter 63

“I just need to think about some things. It really isn’t that big a deal, it isn’t.”

It really wasn’t fair – back when Nico had wanted Paul to be able to read his mind, he’d been oblivious for months, but now, when he wanted time to think just to himself, Paul was always over his shoulder, asking if he was okay, worrying about how quiet he’d been, and demanding to know every detail of what was going on in his head. And worse, refusing to listen to Nico when he pleaded with him to leave him be, because he needed to think, that was all.

“I wish you could just tell me what it is, Nico. You’ve been almost silent for weeks, and seem to be taking it personally that I want to know what it is. _Jesus,_ do you not understand that you’re worrying me?”

“Please Paul, just leave it. You’re not helping.”

“Fine, fine, whatever.” Paul had put his half-empty mug down on Nico’s kitchen counter significantly harder than was necessary, and snatched up his coat. “Whenever you _do_ decide to let me in on whatever the hell this is all about, let me know,” and he’d slammed the door as he’d left.

*

_An idiot. That’s what you are. An absolute idiot. You should have just told him, but you didn’t, and now it’s spiralled out of control and become so much bigger than it should be. Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

Nico was used to dealing with things by himself, and telling people when he was ready, and whilst Paul’s rather pushy and blunt manner of showing he cared was _more_ than okay in some areas (taking the coffee cup straight out of Nico’s hands and then kissing him senseless without any form of _by your leave_ , or pinning Nico up against the wall before he’d even got his coat off, for example…), it was taking Nico some time to get used to it in other areas. This being one. And it wasn’t going well. Paul was matter-of-fact, not one to bother hiding things, or even be evasive or cagey, so it’s no wonder that he can’t seem to understand how Nico’s been acting. Nico just wishes Paul could be a bit more like Rubens; a bit more willing to just let him get on with things and just be there…

He resists the urge to smack himself in the forehead for that thought. _Least helpful comment ever._ He’s turning into Timo, bringing that up at every opportunity. _Everyone is different,_ he reminds himself. And they’d deal with this. Once he’d sorted his head out.

And Paul was clearly only bugging Nico because he was concerned, that much was obvious – he’d started just with teasing, the _penny for your thoughts_ comments, the _I can hear the cogs turnings,_ all said with a laugh and a wide smile, which Nico could smile through a glare in return, and tell Paul to _shove off, it was nothing._ But that probably had been the start of the problem – Nico could brush that off, and did. He should have realised that Paul wasn’t going to leave it alone. Because he hadn’t let it drop, instead trying gentle chiding, the _I just want to know so I can helps,_ the _I’m getting worried here Nicos,_ the _I’m only asking because I cares,_ accompanied by increasingly pained expressions, which made Nico feel increasingly uncomfortable and got at, trying shrug it off and telling Paul to _stop worrying, it didn’t matter._ That was when he should have told him though. But he’d missed his chance, and now, along with feeling like he’s making an issue for them out of nothing, and already dreading Paul’s inevitable _“that was all the fuss was about?!”_ reaction (which makes him feel stupid and small again even to think about), Paul had started to lose patience, until it had become _I have a right to knows,_ the _whatever it is, it’s started affecting us, Nicos,_ and other phrases that made Nico feel even _more_ awful for not telling him. But he kept it to himself, like he always did when people started demanding an answer from him, and now it’s an _issue,_ with both of them fretting over how the other was acting, and really, it was ridiculous.

Nico knows he could do with being a bit more like Paul in moments like these; a bit less afraid of everyone’s reactions, and able just to say what he means, and what he needs to. Then they wouldn’t be in this mess to start with.

He hopes he hasn’t fucked it all up already.

*

Felipe’s houseparty had been the first time they’d spoken in a very long time, and considering what had just happened with him and Paul, it should have been a whole lot more awkward than it was.

“He seems like a nice guy,” Rubens had said, leaning up against the back of the sofa alongside Nico, alone for a moment whilst Paul had nipped off to retrieve the whiskey from Jenson.

Nico had looked down to see Rubens watching Paul, with a soft smile that didn’t have even the slightest hint of jealousy, or any ulterior motive, even if there was a hint of undeniable, almost nostalgic fondness.

Nico shrugged, trying (and failing) to stop himself from smiling and blushing (but he could blame that on the alcohol). “Yeah, he is.” He couldn’t hide the warmth in his voice either, and Rubens looked up.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, and there was no question that he meant it.

“You think he’s ok?” Nico asked, already kicking himself for doing so. He didn’t need anyone’s approval, least of all Rubens’, now more than ever.

“Seems ok,” Rubens shrugged. “From what I’ve seen. But, you know, if he hurts you…” Rubens broke into his brightest and cheeriest smile as he drew his index finger across his throat, and Nico dissolved into giggles.

“Could you even reach to do that?!” he laughed.

“I’m sure I can find a stepladder if I need one…” and then Rubens joined in the giggling.

Nico didn’t stop to think how easy this was, just to get on like this – he was too busy enjoying himself tonight to be bothered by his usual overthinking. Had he thought about it, he might have found it strange that after less than a minute they were laughing together like they _hadn’t_ been apart for the larger part of a year without even speaking, like the last time they’d talked _hadn’t_ been heart-wrenching and awful beyond description, and as if they _had_ been friends, and nothing more, for years. But then this was Rubens, the person who would never ask anyone for more than they could offer, and who could read people better than anyone else Nico had ever known. So he should have known it would be easy, but it hadn’t occurred to him to try, not after how much it had hurt to split, and how awkward he couldn’t help but worry himself into assuming any attempt to get back in contact would be.

(The thought would come to him though in the morning, once he’d sobered up, and he’d add it to his list of things where he was more than happy to be wrong, and the list of things that made the night before quite possibly the best he’d ever had.)

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” and Nico, tipsy, happy, and completely at ease with everything, slung his arm around Rubens’ shoulder and pulled him into a sideways sort-of-hug.

Rubens tucked his arm around Nico’s waist and gave him a squeeze. “He must be good for you,” he remarked, because the room was still full of people, talking, drinking, laughing, and attempting to dance, and for the first time that Rubens could think of, Nico didn’t appear to give a damn about that.

“So are we…” Nico asked, nose wrinkling as he became uncertain again for a moment, and letting go.

“Friends?” Rubens suggested. “Of course. If you want. On the end of the phone if you need me, all that type of thing.”

“Yeah, that’d be…” _Good. Great. Yeah…_ He settled just for a smile.

“Ah, looks like lover boy’s back…” Rubens slid sideways before he could be on the receiving end of a playfully annoyed shove, Nico trying to hide his incoming laugh through the pursed lips of a well-practised unimpressed expression. “I’ll leave you to it. And, let’s not leave it so long next time…”

Before Paul, the whiskey bottle in one hand, could open his mouth to ask what was going on, Rubens had taken the other and given it a firm shake. “Congratulations,” he said warmly, completely ignoring Paul’s confused expression. “And look after him,” he warned, before clapping him on the shoulder, throwing Nico one last smile, and joining the nearest gathering of Brazilians, leaving Nico giggling too hard at Paul’s clueless face to explain what on earth had just happened, getting stuck on “murder” and “stepladder”, and forgetting how to breathe through his laughter-induced stitch.

*

Sometimes you just need a voice of reason, someone level-headed, who’ll listen and help you come to your own conclusions.

He knows Paul can be that, or at least he could if Nico hadn’t already dug himself into this mess… He promises himself that he’ll remember that next time…

There damn well better be a next time.

“Rubens?”

“Nico? What’s up?” Rubens’ voice is familiar even through the background hiss of the long-distance call, and Nico can’t help but calm down just to hear it.

“I need some advice, and I don’t really know who else to ask. I can’t talk to Paul, and Timo will just laugh at me.”

“Knew you wouldn’t be calling just for a catch up,” he laughs, and it takes a microsecond for Nico to fight down the immediate reaction that he’s being laughed _at_. But Nico can hear the slight shuffling of Rubens settling himself in to give his full attention to the phone call, and when he speaks again it’s all reassuring seriousness. “Right, go on then, I’ll do my best…”


	64. Chapter 64

Between Mark and Seb giving each other the silent treatment, each for reasons that the other wasn’t entirely aware of, combined with Jenson’s melancholy, Seb’s agitation, and Mark’s guilt-induced mood swings, the Red Bull becomes a tense and quiet place in those early evenings over the next few weeks.

It’s mainly Mark who looks after Jenson at the bar, doing his best to make sure that his friend doesn’t drink _too_ much, and keeping an eye out for the tell-tale signs (that he can recognise before anyone else) that Jenson’s about to make an inadvisable phone call, gently confiscating his phone _for his own good_ , and reminding him that calling Nico to tell him he loves him isn’t a good idea – _he knows, Jenson, but it isn’t going to help… I’m sorry mate._

Some nights, Jenson leaves before it gets too busy, usually on those nights when Mark has been able to keep an eye on him, watering down his drinks when he starts to worry that his friend has had too many, and insisting that no one else serves him. Other nights though it gets too busy, with too many other customers to serve to give one person their undivided attention, and Jenson ends up sticking around far longer than he should. On those nights, it usually falls to Mark to take an extended break to take Jenson home, ensuring he gets back safely, before running back to the club to pick up where he left off.

It works, to a certain extent, but it’s not the most popular of plans with Christian, who isn’t fond of having his staff distracted by someone else’s problems, let alone vanishing in the middle of shifts, and when Christian pulls him up on it Mark can tell he isn’t exactly in his boss’ good books right now. Though Mark can’t help but remember Seb’s disappearing acts with Tommi, and wonders how Christian never noticed those… But now’s not the time to bring that up.

It’s that thought though that has Mark pulling Seb to one side one night and almost pleading with him to take Jenson home, _just to make sure he gets home okay._

“Christian will have my guts if I’m gone again. And you can get away with loads more than me mate. Don’t argue, you can. If I tell you where he lives can you take him, just this time?”

Despite their differences in the past, and despite the fact that Seb is already freaking out at just the prospect of being alone with a drunk Jenson, there’s no way that Seb can say no. And at least he’ll finally be of some use in all of this mess.

So that’s how Seb ends up supporting an unsteady Jenson out of the club, his arm around Jenson’s waist and Jenson’s arm around his shoulder. It’s the longest he’s ever been this close to Jenson before, and he starts out thankful for the amount of concentration he has to put into keeping Jenson properly upright, because otherwise he knows that having Jenson right up against him, warm under his hands and around his shoulders, would be the only thing his brain would be able to focus on, that he was _this close_ to everything he wanted, and yet it was still so far away…

He’s not so grateful anymore though. Because Jenson is _heavy_. And uncoordinated, and apparently not putting much effort into this whole moving thing that they’re meant to be doing. And maybe Seb shouldn’t have been so pleased about finally being able to help…

The journey home takes several stops, on benches, against walls, and in doorways, Jenson thankfully sobering up a touch in the cool night air and making the intervals between each stop longer and the journey itself less reliant on Seb. (During one of their stops Seb starts to wonder how Mark gets him home and then back to the bar again so quickly… _Practice_ , probably…) But that doesn’t stop Jenson’s self-pitying rambling, which comes in fits and starts all the way to Jenson’s apartment block. Seb does his best to ignore it, replying with noncommittal and generic reassurances, and trying not to take it personally.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so glad to see the end in sight of time spent with Jenson as he is when he realises they’re at the base of Jenson’s building.

“Here we are Jenson, just the stairs to go…”

Jenson grunts and flaps his hand tiredly. “Eurgh, I need to sit down again.”

Seb is more than happy to deposit Jenson on the front step of the building – even though he was now quite able to walk by himself, Seb had decided it was probably both safer and quicker to keep a hold of him, mostly just to keep him moving. But with Jenson now no longer relying on him to remain vertical he takes the opportunity to roll the kinks out of his shoulders and rub at his sore neck, walking a few paces away, just to put some space between them, whilst Jenson reclines awkwardly against the doorframe, more tired than drunk now.

“I loved him, Seb,” he laments despondently. “I _still_ love him… Why isn’t that enough?”

“Sometimes it just isn’t… Trust me.”

Jenson is too busy wallowing in his own misery to notice the slight bitter twist in Sebastian’s expression.

“How do people live like this?!”

_God knows,_ Seb thinks.

There’s a moment of silence before Jenson starts up again.

“They all do this. They all say they love me too and then they leave anyway…” His voice starts to break at the end, cutting the sentence short to bite on his tongue, and Seb turns to see him staring into the distance, fighting back tears, and he looks so wretched that it causes Seb physical pain.

It’s out before he can stop it. “I wouldn’t leave.”

Jenson refocuses his gaze onto Seb, and he’s staring like he can’t quite believe what he’s heard (and not in a good way…).

“Pardon?”

_Shit._ Seb can’t backtrack now – Jenson isn’t drunk enough to forget in the morning (well, afternoon, probably, because the sun is already coming up…), and his expression makes it clear that he isn’t just going to let it drop.

“I love you and I wouldn’t leave you. I don’t understand how anyone could. They, they don’t know how lucky they are…”

For a second there’s nothing, as if they’re both frozen.

“Don’t mock me, Seb, please…”

“I’m not mocking you.”

Jenson just keeps staring. Seb can feel his heartbeat thumping through his veins harder than the bass beat at the club, and he feels light-headed (also not in a good way…).

“Since when?” It looks like Jenson isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

“Uh, since I was DJing…”

Jenson’s eyes go even wider. “Shit, Sebastian, that was five years ago…”

“Yeah, pretty much…” Seb laughs nervously.

“I can’t…” Jenson’s entire demeanour changes, from shock to pure exhaustion. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Seb.”

It’s Seb’s turn to look incredulous. “What?”

“You choose _now_ to tell me?” Jenson almost pleads.

“I didn’t plan to, it just… I’ve been trying for years to tell you, I just kept missing my chances…”

Jenson lets out a slow sigh. “I can’t deal with this right now, I can’t. I’m sorry, Seb.”

There’s a horrid, awkward silence, that stretches on for a painful length of time.

“I can manage the stairs myself,” Jenson eventually says. “I promise not to fall asleep on my front doorstep, okay?”

Seb nods, not trusting himself to speak, and sticking around just long enough to make sure Jenson can get himself to his feet.

Then he flees.

*

“The fuck are you calling…”

“I told him, Kimi.”

“Uh?”

“I told Jenson. Oh god, what the hell did I do?”

Kimi just groans, a noise which is probably a Finnish swear word, but with Kimi it can be hard to tell sometimes. “Middle of the night…”

“I know, but…”

“Call someone else. Jaime or someone. Not me.”

Kimi hangs up on Seb before he can get another word in. It’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he cares about sleep more. And Seb should be well aware that he’ll be of no help whatsoever, least of all at god-knows-when o’clock.

*

A few seconds later, a phone goes from the other side of Kimi’s bed.

“Shit.”

“You forgot I was here, didn’t you?” Jaime lifts himself up on one elbow to attempt to look disapprovingly at Kimi. “I should be offended…”

Kimi waves dismissively at him. “I do not want to talk to him in the middle of the night.”

Jaime snorts. “But you’re happy to listen to me talking to him? Yeah right.” Kimi opens his eyes only to narrow them in a glare, only just visible in the light from Jaime’s still-ringing phone, but Jaime simply scoffs laughingly at him. “Don’t worry, I knew what I was getting into with you. I wasn’t after love, affection, or even commitment, or I would be long gone by now. No feelings involved here, Mr Iceman, I know that.”

“Stop talking,” Kimi groans, burying his head into his pillow and making Jaime laugh properly.

“Too many words?” he jibes. Kimi replies with a silence that says _Yes_ louder than any words ever could, Jaime laughing at him again, and at last the phone stops ringing. “Phew,” Jaime murmurs. “Anyway, now we are awake…” and his voice is full of almost scandalous promises, “I can tell you it would stop me talking…”

…just as the phone starts ringing again.

Jaime sighs frustratedly, letting his head fall forward (Kimi just rolling over again and putting his head _under_ his pillow), before reaching for his phone.

“Ok, ok, _fine_ … Hola Seb? You did? How did it…? Ah… Ok, tell me everything… Yes, well, I am awake now, don’t worry…”


	65. Chapter 65

When Jenson wakes in the morning his entire body is in revolt, his skin cold and clammy, his stomach churning, and his head feeling several sizes too large, not to mention that there’s a taste in his mouth like several small creatures have taken up residence there and then _died_. He risks moving just enough to reach blindly out to his bedside table, but he can’t find his glass of water to take the taste away.

“Erugchh.” Even half opening his eyes sends a stab of what can only be described as _agony_ into the centre of his head as the light from the still-open curtains floods in, but it _does_ tell him that there _isn’t_ a glass on his table this morning. “Urgh?” Did Mark forget this time or something?

Oh, wait, Mark didn’t bring him home last night. No, of course, Seb did.

But, oh.

_Oh._

“Fuck.”

Jenson’s in no state to properly process the memories that come crashing back into his consciousness all at once through the fog of too many… well, too many anyway. But the night starts to fit itself together in his head almost without his permission. Or rather, the end of the night…

He’d just thought Seb was a mate. Not a very close one – they didn’t go out for coffee or anything like that – but one who he could chat and banter with when he saw him, and ok, maybe he did flirt with Seb a bit, but Seb was just flirty, right? And, well, he’s well aware that he flirts with everyone himself. He doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s just what he’s like…

But five years? _Jesus_. He couldn’t even seem to manage a month… That was the whole time Seb had been with Tommi (and suddenly that explained a lot about those two… Not that Jenson had ever thought that Tommi and Seb had been particularly well matched anyway (no, not _not good enough,_ he hadn’t known Seb well enough to have ever made comments like that…)) and then some. And _oh god_ he’d turned up to Seb’s _workplace_ with Nico almost every week for years, and Seb had just had to sit there, and…

Jenson didn’t know it was possible to feel this guilty over something he didn’t even know he’d been doing. Maybe it’s the hangover… Yeah, he’ll blame the hangover.

Talking of the hangover…

Less than thirty seconds later Jenson is wondering if Seb would still be in love with him if he’d ever had to see him throw up. Repeatedly…

*

Seb’s well aware that he’s never had the closest of working relationships with Mark (he knows that there’s plenty of resentment there from Mark, and Seb can’t say he’s always been the easiest person to get on with, or that he isn’t aware how much his cheeky sense of humour can grate on his colleague), so to say that he’s surprised at how Mark greets him when he turns up that afternoon (especially considering that he never bothered to go back to the bar after taking Jenson home last night) is an understatement – Mark flings his arms around him in a proper bear hug, apparently not keen on letting go anytime soon, before dropping him abruptly.

“Whatever it was you said to Jenson,” Mark says, and there’s relief in his voice, _“thank you.”_

_Eh?_

Seb searches frantically for a question that will give him an actual answer without raising any suspicion. “How is he?” _That’s a safe one…_

“He’s _fine_.” Mark huffs a laugh, still smiling. “Said something about it being time to man up, _get a grip_ I think the phrase was… and other people having it worse, or something.” He laughs again. “Just thank you mate. I owe you one.”

Seb risks a trip to the Canteen as soon as he can manage, suggesting _they could do with a coffee today?_ and darting out before his colleague can suggest that actually, _don’t worry Seb, I’ll get them,_ in that slightly too nice tone of voice that Seb knows means he just wants an excuse to visit Fernando…

He skulks around outside the Canteen for a couple of minutes, peering through the window, and trying to sneak a glimpse of the patissière without anyone inside noticing he’s there… Through the glass Seb eventually spots him, and sees that he’s acting, well, _normally_. He still looks tired, and like carrying on as usual is a quite a bit more effort than it would be otherwise, but he’s clearly trying, and his smiles don’t look quite so fake anymore.

Well, it might not have been the reaction Seb had been dreaming of for oh-so-many years (which had involved declarations of hidden, secret love, movie-finale kisses, and hot, passionate sex up against whatever wall they happened to be standing near…), but Jenson was smiling again. And even if Jenson never spoke to him again, that might still be good enough really. It was certainly more than good enough for now.

*

It’s a very different Jenson who comes back to the bar the next week. He turns up with genuine apologies and thank yous to all of them for looking after him, and promises not to put them through it again (“anytime soon at least,” he adds with a chuckle, and whilst it’s not a Jenson-special, that makes the whole room turn to see what’s so funny, it’s still a proper, real, laugh). He seems more serious, and doesn’t laugh as much as Seb remembers (but then he _is_ still getting over a major breakup…). He doesn’t flirt either, with anyone, especially not Seb, who he makes an effort to be polite and pleasant to, but it seems that he’s holding back, checking everything he says or does before he says or does it. It isn’t _awkward_ , but it’s strange between them, and Seb keeps himself otherwise occupied for as much as the evening as possible. Mark though is just so delighted to see a Jenson who isn’t sobbing all over his shoulder that he doesn’t notice Seb’s sudden reticence around his best mate, instead too busy being this grinning fool that Seb is perhaps _more_ scared of than the grumpy, biting-comment-spouting Aussie that he’s got used to over the years…

*

“I know I’ve said this before Mark, but I was never angry at you. Not at all. I fucked this one up all by myself, and I haven’t got anyone else to blame. I just…” Jenson shrugs, open and honest.

“I know it’s not an excuse, but it hadn’t exactly been going well, had it?” Mark suggests. Jenson can say what he likes; Mark still hasn’t entirely forgiven himself, and he’ll still do his best to reassure his friend.

“I should have told him,” Jenson sighs.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Mark says.

Jenson looks up. It’s blunt, but it’s true, and he knows it. And the fact that they can both now talk about it like this says volumes about Jenson’s state of mind.

He smiles, slightly regretfully, but it’s still a smile. “Yeah, I know. Hence the whole not blaming you thing. You were just trying to help, and I appreciate that. But Mark?” Jenson smiles, and it has a hint of his old mischievous sparkle. Mark raises his eyebrows. “Don’t ever try to help me again…”

Mark chuckles loudly. “I promise, mate! In fact, I’ll drink to that.”

“Should you be drinking on the job?” Jenson laughs, properly, and Mark smiles.

“I’m sure I can get away with it this once…” _I’d drink the bar dry just to keep you laughing like that, Jens._ “Cheers.”

They clink bottles over the bar, and perhaps, now, at last, Mark forgives himself.


	66. Chapter 66

“Alright, what’s got you moping?”

Heikki plops down into the seat opposite Kimi, earning a distinctly unimpressed look for his concern.

“I’m not moping,” Kimi mumbles in reply, going back to staring into the middle distance.

“Fine then, what are you thinking about? Because something is whirring around in there…” Heikki refrains from tapping at the side of Kimi’s head, because an annoyed Kimi is a Kimi unlikely to tell him anything.

“Seb.”

“Seb?” Heikki looks genuinely surprised. “Really? I thought you said there was no going back there?”

Kimi answers with another almost-glare. “That’s not what I meant. Seb and Jenson.”

“Ohh… Wait, what about them? Nothing’s happened.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.” Heikki leans back in his chair, understanding. “So you’re plotting then?”

Kimi exhales and slumps further. “I need to think of something…”

They sit in silence for a moment or two, Heikki watching Jerome as he and Romain chatter away behind the counter, wondering if there’s anything there, or whether it’s worth giving Timo a little shove in the direction of a certain ex-Virgin Dining colleague…

He gets to his feet, and Kimi gives him a questioning look.

“Come on then,” Heikki says. “Which flavour is best for brain power?”

Kimi cracks a rare smile. “Take a guess.”

“It begins with V, and ends in Odka…?”

Kimi keeps smiling.


	67. Chapter 67

He feels stupid standing at Paul’s door, knocking, but he isn’t sure if he’s still allowed to use his key – Paul may not have asked for it back, but they’d barely spoken at all this last week, even at work. So he’s knocked, and now he’s standing in the dim corridor, arms clamped across his chest and fingers digging into his biceps, running over the words he’s tried to perfect, and trying not to pace. Not that there’s much space to do that in the narrow passageway…

The lock clicks and the door opens, the warm yellow glow from the flat spilling into the corridor, and for a moment Paul is silhouetted. Then Nico’s eyes adjust, and Paul is staring back at him, expression halfway between surprised and suspicious, and like he’s trying to read his visitor’s intentions without having to speak.

It doesn’t seem to work though.

“Nico.” Paul’s voice is tense and flat at the same time.

“Hey…” Nico tries to smile a bit, but it’s awkward, and Paul is still giving him that strange look, so he doesn’t wait any longer, sucking his breath in between his teeth before he speaks. “I wanted to apologise. I’ve been acting like an idiot these past few weeks, and it hasn’t been your fault. It’s just me. So I came to tell you that I’ve got a new job.”

“Right…” Paul says, like he’s not sure how he’s meant to react.

“They had a vacancy at the chocolate shop, now Sergio’s baking cakes. Junior manager, and plenty of training opportunities.”

Paul still doesn’t say anything, and Nico is twitchy in the silence.

“That was it,” he offers, trying to force out another small, apologetic smile through the tense awkwardness.

At last Paul reacts, but all he does is slump slightly, and when he speaks he sounds tired. “So you’re getting as far away from me as possible then. Ok, right… Do I get to know what happened?”

It dawns on Nico right then that they’re clearly not on the same page here, and he panics, a cold feeling crawling up his spine as he realises that he has genuinely no idea what conclusions Paul may have leapt to during his unexplained ‘thinking’. And from the sounds of things, it’s all the wrong ones.

“No, wait, that’s not what I… look, can I come in?”

Paul frowns again. “Why?”

“Because that was it.”

“What do you mean?”

Nico’s explanation comes out in a rush. “That was what I was worrying about. Whether to stay at the Balti. It’s been a good place to be, it’s been great, and you’re there, but I don’t want to be waiting tables for the next however many years.”

Nico watches as Paul untangles whatever he’s been thinking to line up with what he’s just been told.

“And you couldn’t just tell me that?” he eventually manages, voice still flat, and he doesn’t even try to hide that it’s an accusation.

“I wanted to, but…” Nico shrugs helplessly.

“Then why didn’t you?” He hasn’t let go of the door yet, holding it almost defensively at three-quarters open, and the muscles in his arm are taut from gripping it harder than he needs to. “You had me so _bloody_ worried, Nico. I couldn’t figure out what I’d done for you to shut me out.”

“I wasn’t shutting you out…” Nico protests.

“You were,” Paul interrupts. “And it hurt. I wanted to be there for you, and you wouldn’t let me. If you’d’ve given me the chance I’d’ve listened to anything you wanted to say… I thought that was half the point of, y’know, us. And I’d tell you anything _you_ asked.”

When it’s put like that, Nico really does feel like an absolute idiot.

“Can I ask you something then?” Paul nods. “Can we fix this?”

“I don’t know.”

As far as mental kickings go, Nico’s given himself some severe ones before, but rarely as severely as he’s doing right now, because he’s let himself mess this up, let his utter stubborn stupidity ruin everything, and…

He can’t pursue that thought right here, not right now.

“Do you want me to go?” he says, through a tensed jaw and biting hard on his tongue, bracing himself for the inevitable answer.

“No,” Paul says, sounding almost strangled, and when Nico looks back Paul’s expression seems to match his tone. “Never. I guess that’s the problem.”

Nico pushes his glasses up his nose, and stares, trying to process what he’s just heard. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and he doesn’t know what to say anymore, not straight away.

Instead he risks another question.

“Do you love me?”

_“Yes.”_

Everything turns upside down in that moment, and Nico can’t control his reaction – his nose wrinkles as the back of his neck heats up, and he coughs an involuntary laugh, his face tugging itself into a smile despite his best intentions not to act so goddamn awkward and goofy. But he can’t look away from Paul, eyes flicking back every time he tries, which means he sees how Paul’s breaking into the same nervously hopeful smile (and whilst it really does look out of place and ridiculous on him, it’s the best thing Nico’s seen all day).

“Give me time to tell you, and I promise I’ll always tell you everything,” Nico says, and he wonders when his ability to speak came back. “Will that help? Because, I don’t want to go either.”

“Sure, yeah…” It must be the first time he’s ever seen Paul tongue-tied.

He can’t not grin. “So can I come in now?”

“Fucking _hell_ yes,” and Paul lets go of the door at last to take Nico’s hand and drag him unceremoniously into the flat.

*

“So tell me all about it.” It’s easier to talk like this, in the half dark, legs hooked together, fingers interlinked, warm together under the covers. (They both agree on this, but neither of them know that yet.) So with Paul combing through his hair as it tries to fall in messy clumps across his face, Nico tells him everything, from the first thoughts he’d had, through the phone call with Rubens, to the interview, and everything else along the way.

“Next time, don’t wait _quite_ so long to tell me, eh?”

Nico scrunches a grin into Paul’s shoulder. “I promise.”

“I’m not the best at showing I care,” Paul admits quietly. “But next time I’ll know how to help. Or not help. Whatever you want.”

“I’m not the best at _letting_ people care…” Nico replies.

Paul can’t help but chuckle. “We’re ridiculous!”

“Made for each other,” Nico almost giggles.

“Apparently so.”

Then a moment later,

“Nico?”

“Yes?”

“Do you love _me?”_

Nico opens his eyes and looks up, and for once _he’s_ got the confident smile and _Paul_ looks uncertain.

_“Yes.”_


	68. Chapter 68

They really should think up better names for their events; as titles went, “RB8” wasn’t exactly informative, but somewhere along the line their shorthand had become official, and now it was tradition. It fit the soul of the club though – numbers, letters, science, making their own history with techno and dance, experimental drinks, and slightly futuristic décor – so no one was really pushing to change what worked.

Whatever it’s called though, the Red Bull party is a two night _extravaganza,_ well known as the biggest and best event on the calendar for miles around, winning awards the last two years. And this year, Christian is determined to make it three in a row. Preparation started months in advance, but now it’s the final week, when those last things that _can’t_ be done until the last minute pile up all at once, and everyone at the bar has their work cut out with their own ever-growing to-do lists, arriving as early as mid-morning (no matter how late they’d been open the night before) to check stock and make extra orders, vet the guestlist, organise music, arrange the VIP area, and ensure that every single detail, from the smallest lightbulb to the biggest speaker, is working without a single problem.

The biggest change to the club for the party is the installation of the raised staging and display bar behind the usual bar, designed to be high enough up for Mark and Seb to be clearly visible throughout the club as they perform their most flamboyant trick routines for the partygoers below. This year the staging is higher than ever, with cameras installed so the routines can be shown on the screens scattered around the club, whilst the bar itself is made of translucent perspex, the edges of which appear to glow with whatever colour of light the bar is lit with. And whilst construction began only yesterday, thanks to Ciaron and Rocky helping the workmen out the whole structure should be ready to go in less than a day.

Despite the racket of the ongoing work (which alternates with extended periods of silence, when the workmen are _Contemplating_ like only workmen can) everyone with anything to get done is out in the main space of the club itself, rather than hiding away in the back offices – there’s a sense of camaraderie in all getting on with their own things but all together like this, which is reinforced by all of them having to endure the same bursts of noise from the construction. It feels almost like a family somehow like this, and it reminds Seb why he’s always loved this place.

And it really is everyone – from Heikki, going through the fridges checking stocks of beer bottles and alcopops, to even Christian, his paperwork spread across the bar as he and the waitresses pore over the VIP list, trying to arrange a seating plan to minimise any possible conflict between Fia’s notoriously tetchy great and good… and trying not to tear out his ever receding hair at those people who hadn’t specified the guests they were bringing along with them – how was he meant to figure this out if he didn’t even know who’d be turning up??

At the other end of the bar Adrian and Seb are making tweaks to their latest signature cocktails (designed especially for RB8), Adrian leaning down close, peering through his goggles as he drips a coloured liquid from a pipette into a glass, one drop at a time, and making notes on the colour change, Seb watching carefully whilst simultaneously practicing the part of his routine that involves not looking at what he’s doing…

Mark though isn’t paying attention to what Adrian’s up to; he doesn’t need to – this year’s drinks aren’t really his thing, so he doesn’t have that much input. There are three new ones this year, to go with the theme of three that Christian has been so fixated on – the Indestructible; made mostly of Brazilian rum and energy drink, served in a glass that’s criss-crossed with fake, but very convincing, shatter lines, the Back of the Pack Comeback; three shots to down in order, the first tasting utterly disgusting, but when the second two are drunk it blossoms into something delicious and almost rose-flavoured, plus with enough caffeine in it to get anyone up and dancing (and which Mark is sure Seb only named that way to laugh at drunk customers trying to get their tongues around it…), and the Hat Trick; a deep navy yet crystal clear, luxurious long drink, of mostly vintage champagne (itself a gift from Michael to his favourite barman) with real gold flecks added in amongst the bubbles, all of which will be served alongside previous years’ favourites, such as the Japanese Breeze and the Abu Dhabi Surprise (which, confusingly, was also the name of Kimi’s latest ice cream sundae…). Next year, though, will be different – Mark’s already perfected a couple of showstoppers in his free time. Not that he’s going to tell Adrian that _quite_ yet… But for now he’s quietly running through the more complex moves of his routine – something he was banned from practicing at Fernando’s flat, because coming into the kitchen in the morning to find Mark spinning ferociously expensive bottles of Spanish wine on the end of his finger like a basketball was apparently taking years off Fernando’s life that he protested he couldn’t really afford….

Talking of Spaniards, Jaime is around as well, _long_ before his usual hour to stroll in, up in his booth fiddling with mixes, snippets of dances tracks occasionally booming out of the speakers, competing with the construction work or drowning any background conversation that grew up in the relative silence as he tweaks settings, speeds, and track order. Out of everyone he probably has the most to do at the last minute – he’s had his finger on the pulse at every single set he’s played this year, having been gauging the crowd’s reactions and putting together the perfect playlist in his head since the spring, but despite that there’s still plenty to be adjusted at the last minute, because building the perfect set is like writing a book; you can know the characters, the plot, and the locations, but you still have to stitch it all together into something seamless, fine-tune the order and hammer out the details, and make sure you’re taking everyone with you on the journey you want to show them. Jaime had tried to explain this to Mark once, a long time ago, but he had simply raised his eyebrows, shaken his head, and replied with a disparaging, “If you say so, mate.” It was the only time Mark had ever seen Jaime look genuinely hurt…

He’s not looking hurt today though – anything but, in fact. Sébastien arrived earlier in the week, rocking up in the club with armfuls of records, and Jaime had quite literally vaulted the railing around the DJ booth to jump down onto the dancefloor and launch into an uninhibitedly delighted (and rib-crushing) hug with his best friend (until Sébastien had gasped that he’d quite like to breathe now…). Now the two of them are up at the decks together prepping for the Friday night, engrossed in debating (read: arguing, but never without a smile on at least one of their faces) what to play when and which to mix how, the music cutting in and out as they disagree and demonstrate their points, fiddling with dials and sliders and records, discussing lights and effects, batting each other’s hands away before they can make ‘suggested’ changes, and laughing together like they’d never been apart. Dan and Jean-Eric will be in later, already having plenty of joint sets under their belt for the year, and as they’re playing on the Saturday night they’ve got an extra day to perfect theirs (and when they do arrive, Sébastien will raise his eyebrows in a question at Jaime, because last time he saw those two, wasn’t _JEV,_ not Dan, wearing that particular tshirt? and Jaime will just smirk knowingly in reply).

There’s a small bang and a puff of smoke over at the bar, and an acrid, but strangely citrusy burning smell starts floating through the air.

“We can’t really sell it if it _explodes,_ Adrian,” Christian lifts his gaze from his paperwork to calmly inform their resident mixology genius, whose face is slightly darkened from smoke and with his small amount of hair blown askew, broken glass in an almost perfect ring on the counter, still smoking slightly. “And I thought those only needed the finishing touches…?”

“I know, I know, Christian,” Adrian waves dismissively, raising his goggles, and Sebastian stuffs his fist into his mouth to stop himself from bursting out laughing at the neatly defined line between clean and dirty skin around his eyes. “I was just experimenting with some final refinements… Mark, can you clear this up? I need to go and work on my equations for this one…”

Mark keeps his sigh internal and digs out the dustpan and brush. At least it’s not Seb dropping things this time. But next year, _definitely_ different…


	69. Chapter 69

“Ah, sorry Lewis, I’ve got other plans…” Jenson sounds uncharacteristically awkward, and Lewis frowns, not that Jenson can see it over the phone. And if his vague answer is intended to stop Lewis asking further questions, it backfires.

“Oh?” he replies, trying to sound noncommittally interested.

“Um, Mikey and Jessy are coming round to mine beforehand. Just for a couple of drinks… And a few others, from the bakery… It’s just because I’ve got the biggest place, really…”

“Oh.” Well that explained why no one had got back to his mass text about one final blast with the old gang at the canteen… And at least Jenson was decent enough to tell him straight, and sound genuinely embarrassed about it.

“Sorry man…”

“Nah, it’s fine, don’t worry,” Lewis makes his voice as offhand and bright as possible.

“And, well, I didn’t want Nico to be without company either…”

“I guess not…” He doesn’t tell Jenson that Nico’s already got company coming up for the weekend, in the form of a certain Brazilian, and that’s why he’s calling… “Well, I’ll see you at the club then.”

“Cool, cool.” Jenson sounds relieved that Lewis seems to have taken the news so well. “See you then!”

Lewis disconnects and drops his phone onto the floor. He’d never quite seen eye to eye with Nico’s previous ex (especially after they’d broken up, and Lewis had never quite figured out how they became friends again… not that it was any of his business…) and hadn’t been relishing the thought of an evening with him around as well, when all he’d really wanted was a night like the old days; getting ready with his best friend (and taking the piss out of him for taking so long), and making drinks that were perhaps a touch too strong for that early in the evening… But with Jenson being busy now he’s got no excuse _not_ to join Nico first. He sighs to himself. He’ll just have to suck up his pride – Nico didn’t need any more angst in his life these days, and if Nico wanted to see both of them, he’d man up and be there.

*

Christian surveys the room around him, standing in the middle of the empty dance floor, his hands on his hips. The club is spotless, every bottle behind the bar sparkling, the dance floor glittering, the tables gleaming, the bar polished to a mirror-shine. The main lights are still up, washing out the colours of the lights that are already swirling their shapes over the dancefloor and the display bar, in time with the music that’s already playing, not at full volume, but loud enough that the people in the queue outside can feel the beat and hear the occasional strain, just enough to build the hype. It’s _too_ pristine like this though, unnaturally so, like a show home, like it’s waiting for something. Which, Christian supposes, it is.

“Are we ready then?” he asks, scanning around his staff and club one final time. Seb and Heikki are behind the main bar, Seb idly tossing a bottle of rum, whilst Mark is up on the staging, leaning against his own bar for the night. Rocky and Ciaron are loitering near the far end, by the door, waiting for their cue to go open up, and opposite, standing all together on the stairs and looking as immaculate as the club itself, are Abbey, Liz, Kylie, and Kate (and her sister), all ready to head up to the VIP area. Jaime and Séb are up in their booth, whilst below it, at the edge of the dancefloor are Dan and JEV, wielding cameras with huge lenses with which to snap photos of gangs of revellers. Finally, Adrian is waiting by the door to the back offices – there’s a place for him in the VIP area if he wants it, but it’s more his style to stay behind the scenes, on the first night at least.

“As we’ll ever be, boss,” Mark answers.

Christian nods, slowly, seriously, and takes a deep breath before looking back up.

“Right then. Jaime, Séb, dim the lights. Ladies, upstairs. I’ll join you in a moment. Ciaron, Rocky…” Christian makes a sharp, almost salute-like gesture towards the front entrance, “open up. It’s time to do what we do best – RB8 is a go.”

“Yes boss!” they chorus, and as one all disappear off to their places for the night, as the lights go down and the volume cranks up.

Christian lingers for a moment, already hearing the cheers from the queue outside as the main doors are opened. He smiles to himself, indulging in the pre-party anticipation, before hurrying up the stairs after the waitresses, ready to meet and greet tonight’s VIPs with his warmest and most welcoming smile.

*

The few customers Marussia had tonight have long paid up and left – no one dawdles over dinner tonight, not when the queue outside the Red Bull is a thing of legend – so despite it being so much earlier than normal (and the wrong day of the week) most of the vodka drinkers (and added hangers-on) are gathered around their table together already, and Timo, coming out of the back offices, is out of his uniform and instead in something much smarter.

Heikki wolf-whistles as he reappears, and Timo throws a German insult at him that Heikki doesn’t need to understand to get the gist of, and which Kimi (having spent enough time with Seb over the years to at least have picked up the “interesting” parts of the language) _almost_ cracks a smile at.

Timo has barely reached the table before Charles dashes out behind him, snatching up his coat and almost sprinting for the door.

“See you there!” he throws over his shoulder, before the door slams shut behind him.

“Where’s he going?” Heikki asks.

“Jules, Romain, and Jerome are holding him a place in the queue,” Timo explains, taking the tumbler of vodka Heikki has just offered him and heading to the little bar in the corner of the restaurant to top it up with cola. “They got there at least an hour early, but I still don’t think they’ll be getting in for a good while yet… Paul, want a second?” he adds.

“Yeah, please.”

“Anyway, I don’t envy them,” he continues, filling a pint for Nico’s boyfriend. “At least it’s not raining!”

“Yet,” Kimi adds, not missing a beat, before downing his shot.

“Seriously, we owe you for getting us on the guest list, ‘Taly,” Nico says. “Thank you!”

“It is not problem,” Vitaly shrugs, smiling, as Timo sits back down, passing Paul his drink.

“How’d you manage it?” Paul asks.

“Suppliers perks,” Heikki grins.

“You mean there are more perks than free rein at your stock? Damn…!” Paul laughs.

“I’ll drink to that,” Timo replies, and raises his glass. “Prost!”

They all join in the toast together, clinking their drinks together and trying not to spill too much.

“Prost!” “Cheers!” “Kippis!” “Saúde!”

Vitaly knocks his shot back, only to realise that he and Kimi are the only ones to have done so, and everyone else is staring at him, drinks still hovering in mid-air.

“What did I do?” he asks, worriedly.

“Saúde?” Nico asks, confused.

“Portuguese,” Kimi replies, already refilling his glass, and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“Vitaly, that is so painfully sweet that I think I need to visit a dentist,” Heikki laughs. “But please, never muddle up us and your boyfriend again, ok?”

Vitaly is about to protest before he realises that Heikki is only winding him up, and instead just smiles back.

“Right,” Heikki says, refilling Vitaly’s glass, and raising his once more. “Let’s try that again. Kippis!”

This time all six glasses hit the table together.

*

“Sowdi!”

Felipe lowers his glass and narrows his eyes slightly at Rob. “No, you are not saying it right. Is _saúde,”_ he enunciates as clearly as he can.

Rob frowns. “Sa-woo-deh? Sow-jeh?”

“No, no, no… _saúde.”_

“Felipe, please, let him say it however he wants, my arm is getting tired!” Rubens sighs exasperatedly, Lucas and Bruno just laughing and TK facepalming quietly to himself.

“Ok, ok, you say _cheers_ then, yes?”

“Someone’s bossy tonight!” Bruno chuckles.

Rob shrugs, smiling through an over-the-top long-suffering look. “I’m used to it… oi!” as Felipe pokes him sharply in the ribs.

“If you’ve finished…?” Lucas says. “I’d like my drink now! Saúde!”

“Saúde!” they all repeat, perfectly. Including Rob, which Felipe realises when they’re halfway through downing their drinks, his eyes widening comically. Rob just replies with a faux-innocent grin, Felipe not-really glaring at him, and everyone else already laughing.

“Looks like you underestimated him,” Rubens says, clapping Felipe on the shoulder and grinning.

“Nah, I’m just full of surprises, me,” Rob smiles, before leaning down to murmur fondly into Felipe’s ear. “You’re too easy sometimes…”

“I will get you back for that later,” Felipe pouts, although it’s Rob, so even feigned grumpiness is evaporating already.

“I don’t doubt it, sunshine,” Rob replies with a twinkling grin, and Felipe starts wondering why exactly they have to leave the apartment tonight…

*

“David! Can’t keep you away, can we? Hullo Jake, good to see you too. No Eddie, I hadn’t forgotten you, don’t worry. Can’t say I’ve missed your shirts though… No, it’s alright, it’s dark here…! Gary, hello. And this must be Suzi? Delighted to meet you. Kylie, can you show them to their table please? Yes, BBCruises. Thank you my dear. Martin! Well I would say of course I’ve missed you, but you can probably imagine how busy it’s been… Stefano, good evening to you too. Of course, I’ll join you, as soon as I can, you have my word. Once everyone’s here, I expect… Ross, wonderful to see you here, and Monisha… well, you look quite frankly _exquisite_ … Kate will show you to your table, and I’ll be across later, I promise. Dietrich, Helmut, delighted you could make it. Adrian’s hiding out back right now, you know him. I’ll see if I can’t convince him to come join you tonight as well though. Liz, if you could escort these gentlemen? Thank you. Michael! Welcome upstairs! First time for you, isn’t it? And Mika, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Fantastic. And I know I’ve said it before Michael but thank you very much indeed for the champagne, that was tremendously generous of you… Yes, well, you’ll see soon enough what Sebastian and Adrian have achieved with it! For sure, I’m sure Seb will have a quick moment at least for you tonight, and yes, of course, I’ll personally ensure he’s responsible for all your drinks tonight. Now this is Abbey, she’ll be looking after your table tonight. And I’ll be around too, of course… Enjoy your night. Ah, Monsieur Alesi, enchanté! Kylie, back just in time… Eric. Vijay. Kate, they’re with you, if that’s alright. …I’m dreadfully sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met… Will, of course, Buxton. Pleasure to meet you. Liz, this is the Speed Supercars group, could you see them over? Thank you. Any chance of a drink on your way back actually? I’m losing my voice already… No idea how I’m going to last the night! Mr Ecclestone, Mr Whiting. We’re honoured to have you here again this year. Best seats in the house, of course. This young lady is Abbey, follow her, she’ll take you to your table. Usual rules apply, any problems, come straight to me. Not that we anticipate any, of course! Martin, hullo there. And of course, it’s Natalie isn’t it, ah hello again Ted. Damon! An unexpected addition! No, no, don’t worry, we had the right numbers, I just didn’t have your name in particular. And Crofty, glad you all made it. That’s all of you, isn’t it? You know the drill, Martin, just follow Kylie here, Kylie, Sky Airway’s table please…”

There’s a break in the constant flow of VIPs, and Christian looks down at the list on his clipboard – there are still _reams_ of names unticked; actors, musicians, politicians, and famous faces galore… He groans internally – he’s going to be meeting and greeting for a _long_ time tonight…

*

It takes far longer than it should to get everyone to finish their drinks, sort themselves out, and head off, with people keeping thinking that they can fit another quick drink in before the slowcoaches have polished theirs off, with wallets mislaid and a queue for the bathroom, and with deliberations over whether jumpers are needed as well as jackets, or whether they’ve had enough to drink already not to worry about the cold so much, as well as all those trivial things that snowball until leaving the house starts to feel like organising an arctic expedition, none of it made easier by the number of drinks they’ve all managed to squeeze into such a short time…

Eventually though the six of them are strung out along the streets of Fia, Rob with his arm around Felipe’s waist, Rubens and TK singing loudly (to the amusement of the occasional passers-by), and Lucas and Bruno chatting away at high speed together, Lucas keen to share stories of his new job in his new town, all six of their boisterous chatter and laughter echoing around the avenues and squares they pass through, their breath just hinting at clouding in the cool late evening air, and still (somehow) in plenty of time for their guest list entry time.

*

The sound of the club can be heard from several corners away – not just the muffled thumping of the beat, promising warmth and alcohol and dancing, but the excited tittering of shivery laughter as the huddled groups in the queue try to stay warm in clothing that isn’t in any way suitable for standing around on a November night, and the bursts of actual music, accompanied by cheering from the queue that announces that the door has been opened and the velvet rope lifted to admit the next lucky few.

“Oh come on!” Esteban exclaims as the latest group of guest-listers saunter past the ever-lengthening queue and are allowed straight in. “We’re right at the front, and we’ve been here for ages!”

Checo slips an arm around his waist and rubs briskly at his side, trying to warm him up a little. They’d both forgotten to wear anything sensible for the queue, and are both regretting it now.

“It’s just how this goes!” Kamui shrugs, unperturbed and still perfectly cheerful. “At least we are at the front, some people will not get in at all tonight!”

Esteban leans backwards over the velvet rope to peer back down the queue… Kamui’s right, it goes on a _long_ way… And at the speed they’re moving, he wonders how much longer the four Frenchmen he met at Felipe’s will have to wait - it doesn’t look particularly hopeful for them. Only Charles has a jacket on too… But then again, from the flush on Jerome’s cheeks, the staining on Jules’ lips, and the even more buoyant than usual bouncy grin that Romain’s sporting, they seem to have drunk enough red wine to keep them _feeling_ warm enough at least.

“Three more!” the doorman announces, lifting the rope and letting Kamui and Checo through, but he puts a hand out and stops Esteban.

“I thought you said three?!” he protests, Checo and Kamui about to jump in and demand what was going on.

“Need to see your ID first,” the doorman explains calmly.

Checo is laughing as Esteban has to dig in his pockets, passing it at last to the doorman, who gives it a thorough examination. “Alright, in you go. Have a good night.”

Esteban still hasn’t stopped sulking even after they’ve paid entry and are heading through into the main club, wristbands on.

“I don’t look _that_ much younger, do I?!” he complains, voice already significantly louder to be heard over the still mostly muffled music.

“You should grow some scruff like Checo!” Kamui teases, scratching at his friend’s attempt at a beard. “Anyway, cheer up, we are in now!”

“And it’s warm in here!” Checo adds, after firing a quick glare at a still cheekily grinning Kamui.

“True. So shall we?”

They pause in front of the main doors, tiny slivers of light flickering in between the doors and the frame, and straighten up, tugging at shirt cuffs, hems, and collars until they feel a little more respectable-looking. Then, as one, they push open the double doors and stride through like a trio of gangsters (in their minds, at least).

They’re hit by a wall of sensations, the music flooding over them, washing with it the sounds of the multitudes of people who are thronged around the bar and packed onto the dancefloor, cheering to the music and the display up on the staging (where Mark is currently spinning two shakers simultaneously, which he then throws into the air one after the other, pouring the first into a glass before catching and pouring the other out). They can’t see an end to the people, but it doesn’t feel overcrowded; instead it feels _alive_ , the almost tropically warm air itself thrumming with the energy of hundreds of partygoers and thick with the sweet smells of different alcohols and the smoke machine, and through which the lights burst and dance in eddies of colour, bright and dark at the same time, until the whole effect is of somewhere utterly unreal.

Esteban’s eyes widen. “Now _this_ is a party!”

“It will be in a minute,” Checo corrects. “We need a drink first. Come on!”

*

By the time the group from Marussia make it to the Red Bull there’s a queue for guestlist entry. Not a long one, and nothing compared to the general admission queue, but a queue all the same. In front of them, having IDs examined and compared the doorman’s clipboard, are a group of students, or at least that’s what they must be, looking that young, and more than a touch on the scruffy side.

“How the hell did _they_ get on the guestlist??” Heikki whispers not entirely as subtly as perhaps would be tactful into Kimi’s ear.

“Parents have money,” Kimi answers, sounding even less impressed than usual as the kids in front run up the steps and through the door into the club, whooping and high-fiving.

“Cheer up!” Timo interrupts. “Who cares who else gets in? _We’re_ in this year, that’s all that matters!”

“Yes you are,” the bouncer says, now finished running through all their names with Vitaly and lifting the rope for them. “Have a good night, gentlemen!”


	70. Chapter 70

Shouting above the noise to get someone’s attention isn’t really Vitaly’s style. Sneaking up behind someone and catching them unaware though _is_ , so when he spots Kamui waiting for service at the bar he sidles up behind him and drapes his arms around his neck, resting his chin on top of his friend’s head. Kamui knows immediately who it is, and grabs Vitaly’s elbows, rocking them both side to side to the music, beaming. If he was a bit taller he’d hoist his friend up into a piggyback, but he’s not taller, so he doesn’t.

“You are only just here?” Kamui asks, unhooking himself from his friend.

“We had guest list,” Vitaly smiles a little shyly. “Timo, Nico, and Paul are looking for tables. Kimi and Heikki are at the bar, somewhere…”

“What about this boyfriend of yours? Are you hiding him from me?” Kamui laughs when Vitaly shakes his head.

“Hiding who?”

It’s Vitaly’s turn to have someone slip their arms around _him_ , but this time it’s around the waist, a tight hug that slips into a single arm lingering in place as Bruno moves to his side, grinning.

“Aha! You!” Kamui pipes up. “Unless Vitaly has another boyfriend he hasn’t told me about!”

“You must be Kamui!” Bruno grins, holding out his free hand to shake. “Vitaly’s told me plenty about you!”

“And you must be Bruno.” Kamui takes it. “He’s told me very little about you!”

Vitaly looks between his best friend and his boyfriend, both which huge smiles, enough concentrated cheerfulness to power a small town, and wonders why he didn’t get around to introducing them sooner – there’s certainly no question about them getting on; they’re already chatting away about how Kamui is actually Vitaly’s secret ninja bodyguard.

“Oi! Bruno!” Lucas is beckoning wildly at the edge of the dancefloor. “Felipe wants to know why you’re not dancing!”

“Coming!” Bruno gives Vitaly’s hand a quick squeeze. “Can’t refuse Felipe when he wants to party!” he shrugs. “When you’ve got your drinks, come to our table, and bring your friends – there’s room for a few more!”

Bruno though clearly hadn’t moved fast enough, because Lucas is right there, and with a tight grip on Bruno’s elbow is dragging him away again.

*

From where Jaime and Séb are, up in the DJ booth, tonight seems to be going well. The dance floor is busy, full of well-dressed guys and remarkably agile girls in towering heels and figure-hugging dresses in amongst the whirlpools of coloured light, voices joining in cheers that crescendo to the rafters as another classic tune comes on, whilst some are even bold enough to clamber onto the raised podiums, ringed in brushed steel railing and neon lights, to show off the best they can do to the whistles and whoops of their friends below. It’s nowhere near full though – there are still people coming in through the main doors, adding to the incessant churning of the crowds, currents of people constantly flowing through the club, back and forth and round and round between the bar and the sofas and the dancefloor and the tables. And it’s only going to get busier – there will be no breathers for anyone on the staff for the next few hours at least, everyone swept up in the unrelenting pace of their roles in the finely-tuned machine of a Red Bull club night.

*

“So will that Kimi guy of yours be here tonight?” Séb asks. He scans quickly over the playlist, checking on the number of songs before he and Jaime swap over again from controlling the lights and effects to running the music.

“I dunno!” Jaime dismisses, his headphones somehow staying on his head despite only covering one ear, both his hands busy adjusting settings, staring intently at his monitors.

“You’re DJing the biggest club night of the year and you don’t even know if the guy you’re seeing is going to be here?! I’m sure you’ve told me about one guy you _withheld sex from_ until they promised to come to your events…”

Jaime shoots Séb an unimpressed look over his shoulder. “Sleeping with, not seeing. And we don’t really talk about stuff like that.”

“Do you even talk at all? In fact, why am I even asking, I don’t want to know…”

“I suppose you haven’t met Kimi… He doesn’t really do talking.” Then Jaime smirks, the expression that warns Séb that despite his previous sentence there’s a TMI moment almost certainly coming up. “But when he _does_ feel like talking, trust me, it would make you more than blush to hear the things he says. Or the noises he makes…”

“Ah! No more details, please!”

“Aww, you spoil all my fun.”

“No, no, I definitely do not…!”

“No, actually, you don’t. Because you are _lots_ of fun to wind up!”

*

This is the first night that Jenson’s been out properly since his breakup, and even though he doesn’t have someone by his side all night making sure he’s ok, he’s got enough friends to keep an eye on him, and he looks to be more than just ‘coping’ – he seems to be back to his old self, almost never alone, flitting from group to group without a second’s pause. The music may not be to his taste for listening at home, but it’s right for the occasion, a blanket of sound that’s strangely liberating, muffling out anything extraneous and allowing everyone to let go, and Jenson goes with it, the bass in a constant pulse, the rhythm looping and flowing like it has a life all of its own. It’s addictive, a wave of music to be ridden, bursts of energy on the dancefloor as people recognise songs that have materialised seamlessly from the mix out of the last track, and join in, putting that little extra bit of effort into their dancing as recognition dawns each time, rippling like a wave through groups of friends as one person reminds the next, and periods of calm when the tracks slow into something more relaxed, and the groups hit the bar whilst the couples have the dancefloor to themselves, arms around each other.

Jenson rides the wave like he always used to, wherever it takes him – one moment he’s with his colleagues from the canteen, chinking glasses of cocktails, the next holding polite but friendly conversation with his neighbours from his apartment block, interspersed with brief flirtations with passing waitresses, the odd quiet moment hanging out at the bar to watch Mark’s display, cheering and applauding loudly at every opportunity, even a song here and there spent with the bundle of exuberance that is the group of Brazilians, joining in with dance routines and taking the opportunity to really let his hair down (a phrase which has Felipe and Rubens arguing it out over whose hairline is receding faster…). He stops for a quick chat with Lewis, introduces himself with all of his customary charm to Suzi, and of course spends a good long time catching up with Jake and David when they abandon the scrutinised exclusivity of the VIP area for the relative anonymity of the dancefloor. Jenson’s having the best night he’s had in months: he’s the social butterfly, the life and soul of a party which isn’t even his. And somehow he doesn’t run into Nico even once.

*

“Right, four more…”

“Ah, thank you thank you thank you!” Romain gushes. “We thought we would never get in!”

“Consider yourselves lucky,” the doorman confides, hooking the rope shut behind Jules, “I don’t think there’ll be many after you… Yup,” he looks over to the other doorman, who gives him a nod, “you are officially the last in.”

“Imagine if he had said only three!” Jules exclaims as they finally enter the warmth of the front corridor of the club. “I would have been stuck out there still!”

“Jules, you would have got in somehow,” Jerome says. “No question. This is you!”

“You don’t take no for an answer, despite that permanently confused expression of yours,” Charles teases, and Jules rises to the bait, chasing him up the stairs and into the club.

*

“I can’t find you on here, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean? Dr. Gary Hartstein, H A R T S T E I N.”

“Sorry sir, your name isn’t on the list.”

“I don’t understand… I booked my table weeks ago! I’ve got my booking reference here, look…”

Rocky takes a look at the printout. It certainly looks legitimate, but that’s no help right now. “We’re full, sir, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

“But I’ve booked! There must be a mistake, I’ve done every one of these for years and I’ve never had a problem before! Get me the manager, dammit!”

*

RB8 is full. And not just “busy” but at capacity. Every name is ticked off the guestlist, and every seat in VIP is taken, Christian able at last to put his clipboard away now they’ve reached the end of the streams of the great, the good, and the glamorous – models and designers from the Amber Lounge Boutique, restaurant and bar owners from around town, ex-residents with small fortunes, and even the odd minor celebrity – whilst outside Rocky and Ciaron have the unenviable task of keeping an eye on a queue of still determinedly optimistic faces that now has little chance of going anywhere. There simply isn’t a single space in the club for a single extra person.

And that’s when the night’s first issue comes.

He’s already had reports from Rocky that there are accusations of bribery and mutterings of revolt in the queue after a slightly rag-tag group of students from the language school rocked up and turned out to be on the guestlist somehow; he doesn’t need anything else to cause any problems outside. So of course that’s when he hears the last words he ever wants to hear on any night, let alone a night as big as this: Ciaron appearing at his side with a “Boss, we’ve got a problem…”

Of all the people to suffer a hitch in their booking process and be missed off the list it has to be one of the town’s best known and most well respected names. Of course it does. And having said individual shouting insults at your establishment in front of an entire queue of already frustrated would-be guests certainly isn’t the type of publicity Christian likes. There’s nothing he can do though other than come outside himself and apologise personally – they’re as full as full gets and there’s nothing he can do about that apart from suggest that if the doctor and his party would be prepared to wait, there might be space if anyone decides to leave?

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t go down too well.

_Next year_ , Christian thinks as the doctor and his group depart, more than disgruntled and still ranting furiously to anyone who’d listen, _they wouldn’t cut it so fine_. Room to manoeuvre on the total numbers – that’s the lesson from this year.

*

Christian’s wish for no more trouble outside at least is granted though, sort of – this time it’s _inside_ , on the stairs, when Bruno and Abbey, neither of them quite looking where they were going, collide with a crash and smash of glasses and bottles shattering onto the steps whilst Abbey, a stiletto twisting off the edge of the step with the force of the impact, tumbles down the stairs with a sickening series of thuds and a shriek that has everyone in earshot worrying that she’s broken something (Bruno included, who’s the first to her side to check she’s alright and apologise copiously).

It occurs to Christian, as he’s supporting Abbey back to the offices and sending Dan off to find Dr Marko, that they really could have done with Dr Harstein and his experience in minor injuries in the house tonight.

No one’s more relieved than Bruno when it turns out to be just a sprained ankle, albeit a nasty one, and Christian chases him away from where he’s loitering at the door with reassurances that she’s fine.

“No harm done,” he says, more optimistically than he feels. But there’s no chance she’ll be waiting tables for the rest of the night.

“You should go home,” he says, once Helmut has found some heavy duty strapping and bandaged the swollen ankle up. “Rest it. We’ll be fine without you.”

“No you won’t,” Abbey replies, and Christian’s silently relieved, because he can’t deny it’s a push to keep up as it is right now. “Not at this time of night. It’s far too busy. Find me a stool, and put me behind the bar. Heikki can help out upstairs.” Abbey’s as tough as any of the guys at the Red Bull, Christian knows that. And just as stubborn.

“I am buying you a bottle of something for this,” Christian insists, giving Abbey a quick sideways hug when she’s perched on her stool behind the bar, in manageable (if not easy) reach of the bottles, fridges, and till. “You’re a trooper.”

“Make it champagne, and you’re on!” she smiles, only a hint of a grimace.

“You deserve nothing less after tonight. Done!”

The other thing to occur to Christian, once he’s back upstairs, apologising to Abbey’s VIP tables that due to _'unforeseen circumstances’_ they’ll be having someone else look after them for the rest of the night, is that things tend to come in threes. He’d really quite like that not to be the case tonight.

*

Jenson isn’t the only one spending his night with anyone he happens to run into – Fernando’s here tonight, even though huge events like this aren’t really his thing. But he’d promised to come see Mark on his big night, and he’s happy enough to spend most of his time by himself, either at one end of the bar watching Mark, or at the edge of the dancefloor watching everyone else. And that’s where he’d be content to stay if he didn’t have wildly enthusiastic friends, in the shape of Romain and Felipe in particular, who insist on keeping him company whenever they spot him by himself, whether that’s by making Jules, Charles, and Jerome scoot over to make space on their sofa and chatting away about how the quality of the wine in this place has improved significantly recently (something which just so happens to coincide with the time Fernando and Mark have been a thing, not that Romain and his friends have made the connection…), or by ushering him into the middle of whatever madness the Brazilians are up to this time; photobombing unsuspecting groups of clubbers, dance-offs, drinking games, and generally having an absolute riot.

Lewis though is a bit lost tonight, finding himself on his own quite often too, and he’s neither as good at finding alternative company as Jenson, nor as comfortable being alone as Fernando. Really, he just wants to be hanging out with Nico, but Nico and his ex (“No, just _friend_ , Lewis,” Nico had corrected him patiently earlier on, “that’s all history, it doesn’t matter.”) have been wrapped up in each other all night, sharing stories and reminiscing, Nico’s laugh wide and full again and making his nose crinkle and his hair fall into his eyes as he’s bent double in near hysterics, and dancing probably that little bit too close for the 'just friends’ Nico keeps protesting they are, one arm draped onto Nelson’s shoulder as his other arm holds his drink high in the air, a slightly alcohol-glazed smile across his face, and Lewis doesn’t feel like competing for Nico’s attention. He considers advising Nico to rein it back a bit on the booze tonight, just in case he does something he regrets, whatever that might be (and Lewis then has to pick up the pieces), but he doesn’t think that’ll go down well tonight, and he’s not keen on an inevitable reaction of a slightly slurred “I’m fiiine Lew, stop stressing and lighten up!” and an almost patronising hug. But there are people enough to keep him from feeling completely abandoned, from Heikki to Fernando to Timo to the whole gang from the Canteen, and he supposes it could be worse.

*

The music goes through a phase of being frenetic, so fast that only the most accomplished of couples can keep up with sharp and hip-swinging steps and twirls that whip around, mere mortals either jumping about uncoordinatedly or retreating to rest aching legs and swig refreshing drinks, and there’s a queue at the bar again, until Jaime pulls it back, transforming it into something more intense, dirty and demanding, the beat so strong that it knots his stomach and makes a lump in his throat, like it’s in his bloodstream somehow. It’s hypnotic, entrancing, vibrating through his body and messing with his heartbeat, dragging him into the currents and eddies of the bass and sound as it draws the clubbers back onto the floor. Up on high like this Jaime is a conductor of an orchestra of dancers below, and he closes his eyes and lets his head tilt back, the strobes just dull flashes behind his eyelids, letting the music course over and through him, fingers still resting on sliders; the only things grounding him. Other than that he could be anywhere. Nothing quite compares to letting the music get under his skin, into his soul like this, nothing he’s found anyway – this is as close as he’ll ever get to spiritual, he realised a long time ago.

_“Are you ready to go all night?!”_ Jaime yells, the music coming to a peak, somehow becoming even louder, still not drowned out by the answering screams of the euphoric crowds below. Then the song fades out to near-silence, replaced instead by some almost delicate electronic sounds that everyone seems to recognise, and within seconds the hands that had been held still in picture-perfect rapture moments ago are swaying in the air as the crowd starts to sing along, some even with their eyes closed as the intro builds. Then the bass drops, and the crowd follows it over.

Sometimes, with the way it affects him, like it’s taking him over from the inside, Jaime isn’t sure if he controls the music or if it controls him.

*

If there’s anyone getting their money’s worth out of tonight, it’s the Brazilians, who dance like loons whatever the track, loose limbs flying and bouncing like they’re on springs, and barely leaving the dancefloor, only doing so en masse, taking over the table and squishing everyone up together (Felipe protesting that he wasn’t so short as to warrant having to sit on Rob’s lap…) once they’ve finished crowding out the bar to top up their drinks. And even though Rob isn’t with them for every second of the night, he’s not missing out – he’s equally as content to be out on the dancefloor or downing shots with Felipe’s party animal friends as he is to be in a corner with the lads from work, sharing beers and jugs of cocktails and ribbing the people on the dancefloor who are drunk enough to think that they can pull off Impressive Moves (and inevitably can’t, much to his and his mates’ amusement). And of course none of them are going to pass up on a photo opportunity, monopolising Dan or Jean-Eric almost every time they pass by for pictures of the whole gang, Felipe with his arm slung around Rob’s shoulder, Michael with _Felipe_ slung over his shoulder, Rubens pulling ridiculous expressions, TK trying to outdo him, or Felipe even grabbing whoever happens to be passing into shot. Which doesn’t always get the results he’s after, Bruno at one point finding himself peering at the display on Jean-Eric’s camera alongside Lewis and Fernando, all three of them trying to figure out who the hell that guy smiling slightly creepily in the background is… But there’s no time to find out, because there’s an opening at the bar.

“More caipirinhas!” Felipe demands, lifting his hand into the air at his announcement, and Rob is only too happy to oblige, slapping his credit card down onto the counter and calling an order of caipirinhas “for, er… just keep 'em coming mate!”

*

“JEV?”

“Yes?”

Both Dan and Jean-Eric are comfortably tipsy, after possibly one too many drinks when they’re technically working (it’s not their fault the clubbers are all so friendly…), cameras still slung around their necks, memory cards now at least half full of photos of high-spirited partygoers.

“I think there’s a _problem_ with my _camera_ …” Dan can barely conceal his grin.

“What have you done to it?” Jean-Eric tuts and plucks it out of his hands, but he stops short of examining it properly. “Your camera is working fine, Dan.”

“No no, I _definitely_ think it’s broken. I think we need to go out back and see if we can get it working again…” Dan raises his eyebrows suggestively and stares at Jean-Eric, willing him to understand.

“Oh…” Jean-Eric finally notices Dan’s expression and twigs at last. “Yes, it is definitely broken… We should, go into the back, and, repair it. For sure.”

Dan’s face splits into a wide smile of white, brace-free teeth.

And because Dan’s not even slightly subtle when he’s been drinking, he leans over to whisper loudly in Jean-Eric’s ear. “And while we’re back there, I think we should check if your front zip is working properly too…”

*

“It is a good thing you are good at this,” Jean-Eric almost sighs as Dan backs him up against the wall.

“You’d know,” Dan grins wolfishly, already dropping to his knees and unbuckling Jean-Eric’s belt, nuzzling at the front of the zip and feeling the bulge beneath swell.

“More practice cannot hurt though…”

“Nope, can’t hurt at all…”

Dan works open the button and takes the pull of the zip in his teeth, drawing it down, his hands running over the back of Jean-Eric’s thighs, before sliding them to the front and tugging Jean-Eric’s trousers down. He lets them fall to Jean-Eric’s ankles, already forgotten as he starts kissing and mouthing at the cotton of Jean-Eric’s boxers, breathing in the heady scent, his hands now grasping at Jean-Eric’s arse.

“Stop teasing, we do not have time!”

Dan seems in no hurry though, too busy enjoying how Jean-Eric is hardening gradually under his touch. “We’re _fine_ , it’s so busy they won’t notice we’re gone for hours.”

“Ngh, Dan!” Jean-Eric whines.

“Alright, alright!”

Dan tucks his fingers under the elastic of the waistband and Jean-Eric’s pants promptly join his trousers, Dan already placing a scattering of light kisses up the soft skin of the inside of Jean-Eric’s thighs. Then he takes Jean-Eric into his mouth, and Jean-Eric makes a soft, satisfied sound, melting back against the wall as Dan sucks gently, humming eagerly at the familiar feel and taste of Jean-Eric stiffening completely against his tongue, Dan’s breath in hot puffs against his skin.

Then Dan brings his hand up to join his mouth and begins to suck him in earnest, making little muffled noises of appreciation as he does so, his fingers beginning to play gently with Jean-Eric’s balls. Jean-Eric has to brace himself to stop himself bucking forwards into Dan’s mouth, feeling Dan’s cheeks drag against his length and the tip nudge at the back of Dan’s throat, and he laces his fingers into Dan’s curls, encouraging him on as arousal starts to pool in the pit of his stomach, spreading its warmth through him, combined with the urgent heat from knowing that anyone could walk through the breakroom door at any moment.

Jean-Eric pulls his eyes open and looks down, wanting to watch Dan with his lips wrapped around his cock and that look of almost blissful focus he always has when going down on Jean-Eric. This time though Dan’s not waiting for Jean-Eric to return the favour; his own trousers are pulled roughly open and he’s jerking himself off with the hand that isn’t still curled around Jean-Eric’s cock and stroking in time with his lips. The slow build of Jean-Eric’s orgasm peaks almost without warning at the sight, and he’s coming with nothing more than a sharp voiced intake of breath, Dan groaning as he swallows, sucking and licking hungrily, and then leaning his forehead against Jean-Eric’s hip as he’s bucking forward into his own hand, catching his own mess in his other hand as best he can.

Joining Dan on the floor seems like a very good idea to Jean-Eric, whose legs are feeling pretty wobbly, and he slides down the wall, starting chuckling when he sees Dan grimacing at his sticky hand.

“You didn’t think that through, did you?” Dan shakes his head, and slumps sideways against Jean-Eric, still holding his hand away from himself. “Come here…” Dan’s eyes go wide as Jean-Eric guides his hand to his mouth and starts licking his fingers clean.

“Oh you kinky…” Dan laughs breathily as Jean-Eric’s tongue slides between his fingers. “Oh god… Tell me why we have to go back out??”

*

Breaks on nights like this are never long enough; barely enough time to grab a drink and run to the toilet before Mark knows he’ll be expected back up there, performing as if he _hasn’t_ been on his feet for hours straight. So he slips out into the back corridors and heads to the breakroom…

…and yanks open the door just as a suspiciously flustered-looking Dan tries to push it open from the other side.

Dan just manages not to fall into Mark’s arms, straightening up quickly, and Mark gives him an apprehensive frown.

“Hi…” Dan is fighting down a guilty grin.

“Shouldn’t you be out there?” Mark asks after a moment, when Dan doesn’t add anything else.

“Er, camera was broken,” Dan answers, not even slightly convincingly.

“Right…”

It’s about then that Mark notices the blossoming lovebite just below Dan’s collar. And then he notices Jean-Eric skulking in the background, looking equally shifty… Mark looks between the two of them, and they squirm like teenagers caught behind the bike sheds, unable to keep the slightly sheepish grins off their faces, and Mark decides he does _not_ want to know what they’ve just been up to.

“Y’know, I never thanked you for getting me drunk at Felipe’s party,” is what Dan interrupts Mark’s train of thought with, and Mark is sure Jean-Eric just facepalmed in the background. “’Cos, yeah, with how that worked out, I owe you one!”

“I don’t want to know, mate,” Mark pleads, shaking his head. “Just, go…” and he steps aside to let Dan and Jean-Eric slink quickly through the door.

_Why would they think he wants to know?_ he sighs to himself. At least Tommi and Seb had _tried_ to be subtle…

*

There’s never the same group of people for any length of time sat at the table shared by the Brazilians, the group who arrived from Marussia, and all their associated hangers-on (at one point they even end up with Jerome, Romain, Jules, and Charles all crammed in with them as well, after Timo spots Jerome, and Jerome’s friends all decide that it’s absolutely essential that they stay with him) – there are simply too many cocktails to try, songs to dance to, people to catch up with and dance with to stay in any one place for long. Which is probably a good thing, because there really isn’t room for all of them at once, especially as the table itself is now covered in glasses, bottles, and jugs, with the night’s random acquisitions balanced on top: a sailor’s hat that Timo had returned wearing, two wire coathangers, several tubes of neon, UV facepaint which Nico and Paul had come back covered in streaks of, a green feather boa, a stick-on ginger moustache, a fake flower garland, a pair of giant glasses that Checo had managed to wear for a impressively long time, and everything sprinkled with the same glitter and confetti from the dancefloor that’s in everyone’s hair.

Heikki and Kimi are happy spending most of the night going back and forth to the bar, whilst Kamui and Timo swap mostly between their friends in couples on the dancefloor, being Checo and Esteban and Nico and Paul, and their other friends at the table, being Vitaly and whoever else happens to be there at the time. Checo and Esteban have apparently decided that they can 'help out’ best on the space issue by spending very little time there at all, not because they’ve got a problem with the company (Esteban and Nico are starting work together in the couple of weeks time as it is, and seem to be getting on like a house on fire whenever they run into each other), but more a case of that since Kamui won’t be on his own they don’t need to feel so bad about abandoning him, having decided that the obscurity of the dancefloor is as good as the privacy of their own homes for being almost indecently all over each other. And Nico and Paul seem to have had thoughts along remarkably similar lines. Felipe though remains determined to get everyone involved with everything, despairing at Vitaly, Kimi, and Heikki’s refusals to join the dancing (although Rob points out that he’s probably just sulking that the three of them have beaten him in every drinking game and contest they’ve had that night…), scolding Bruno for missing out on half the fun by spending so much time keeping Vitaly company, and eventually even starting up a conga line, one that’s soon stretching around the whole club, snaking around sofas and tables, drinkers and dancers and VIPs alike swept up, even Bernie, who’s waving his free arm enthusiastically as the line passes the table’s only remaining occupants – two detachedly bemused Finns and a completely confused Russian.

*

“Jaime, what’s that hissing sound?”

“What are you on about, Séb?” The speakers are working fine, and there’s no unwanted noise on any of his tracks or records.

Then he hears it, a quiet, but high pitched noise, coming from above their heads…

Jaime looks up, squinting through the lights that do more to accentuate the darkness than eliminate it, just as a drip falls onto his forehead.

The only thing up there is the AC and the sprinkler system. And the AC doesn’t hiss.

_“Fuck…”_

And the sprinklers spurt into life over the dancefloor.


	71. Chapter 71

There’s a collective shriek from the dancefloor as the clubbers find themselves under a spray of water, and Jaime has a split second of perfect, frozen-in-time clarity where all the worst outcomes fly in front of his eyes…

…before he realises that the sprinklers above the decks haven’t gone off. And neither have the ones above the speakers. In fact, the only ones that _have_ are a couple of strips across the dancefloor, which after a brief burst have fizzled out to a fine drizzle over the still-shrieking clubbers.

He can fix this though. Sort of. But not by doing anything to the sprinklers.

“Move, Séb, I need the decks back. Now.”

*

Seb is pretty sure he’s never heard as many swear words issue from his boss’ mouth as he does in that single moment when it starts raining _inside_ the club, Christian practically shoving past him, racing into the back offices at a speed Seb’s never seen before either and barking orders down his walkie-talkie to Ciaron and Rocky at a volume that Seb can even hear over the continuing blast and thump of the music from the dancefloor. But even if he wanted to find out what on earth is going on (and with Christian acting like that, he _really_ doesn’t), it’s his job to carry on making the drinks until told otherwise, no matter how bizarre the situation, and the influx of people to the bar means he’s going to be busy again at just that for a good long while now.

*

Things to insist on whenever they install a new system of _anything,_ Christian decides as he stares at the shiny, touchscreen control panel for the sprinkler system: a big, red, obvious “off” button. Because even with Rocky on the end of the walkie-talkie giving him the clearest instructions he can manage (whilst apologising to the crowds he’s pushing through to get out back as quickly as possible), it still seems to be a stupidly complicated process to turn the damn thing off. And yes, Christian can see the importance of it not being _too_ easy to shut down such a crucial system, and in reality it can’t have taken more than a minute to find out where the control panel is, sprint to the appropriate room, open the plywood cupboard, and start shutting the whole system down; it just _feels_ like hours, especially when right now all he can think of is gallons of water pouring down over the dancefloor in the club behind him with every extra second it takes to navigate another bloody on-screen menu.

“Got it,” Christian sighs as the screen turns red and flashes a warning about disabling safety systems and insurance and other fine print that he really doesn’t feel like reading right now.

“Nice save boss,” Rocky’s voice crackles over the radio. “But I think you should get back out here.”

Christian pinches the bridge of his nose and prepares for the worst – that it’s got into the electrics, that they need to close the club, on tonight of all nights…

“On my way.”

*

He’s braced himself for a full-scale fallout, something semi-apocalyptic perhaps, the aftermath of thousands of pounds of equipment going up in a loud bang or damp fizzle of waterlogged electronics, quite possibly a mostly empty club and definitely a queue of people wanting to know what the hell was going on and whether it was worth them sticking around, and… So when he arrives back at the bar and finds, well, _nothing,_ Christian wonders if perhaps someone slipped something into his drink. Granted, there are far fewer people on the dancefloor, and the people at the back of the now significantly longer queue for the bar look like they’ve been caught in a short rainshower, with a few slightly disgruntled looking individuals gathered around tables or heading to dry out as best they can in the bathrooms, but the music’s still playing, drinks are still being served, and the partygoers seem remarkably oblivious of the all-out panic that was going on behind just a couple of walls.

“Looks like we lucked out, boss,” Rocky says, shaking his head and smiling at their shared relieved disbelief. And the amount by which they, in Rocky’s words, _lucked out,_ becomes even more clear as Christian hears the details; how the possible downpour reduced to little more than a fine spray almost immediately, how it missed almost all the electrical equipment, and the VIP area, and the bar… and how the quick thinking of someone up the DJ booth certainly helped to save the day.

It’s only when Rocky points out that last bit that Christian recognises the song that’s playing, obscured as it is from his more traditional tastes through a thick remix of unfamiliar basslines and extra synth: _It’s Raining Men._

It’s probably the adrenaline, but Rocky doesn’t think he’s seen the boss laugh that hard in a very long time. And at the very least, they owe tonight’s DJs a drink.

*

“Do you think anyone noticed?” Séb asks, cranking up the smoke machine and emptying more glitter in a ‘rainshower’ over the dancefloor.

“Of course they _noticed_ ,” Jaime says, glancing over his shoulder to give Séb a raised-eyebrow look. “But I don’t think they _realised_. Or _cared_. And _that’s_ what matters!”

Even facing the wrong way, never taking his eyes off the dancefloor, Jaime manages to return Séb’s high five with palm-tinglingly painful accuracy.

*

Of course it’s not quite as simple as Christian had silently hoped. It doesn’t take long to discover that the system can’t really be switched off entirely, or at least not easily, turning itself back on again every few minutes unless constantly supervised. So it falls to Ciaron and Rocky to spend the rest of the night in a dingy room out back, one of them left to dig through the bible-thick instruction manual to work out how to override the whole damn thing without setting off the fire alarms, and the other ready to reset the system whenever it tries to flicker back into life and threatens to drench the slowly-drying clubbers all over again with more unexpected indoor weather.

“That trick with the rain, Christian, very clever.“ Christian drags his eyes down from his nervous glancing at the ceiling and finds his old employee leaning against the table next to him. "But next time it’d be nice to have warning, these trousers aren’t made to get wet!”

Christian suspects from David’s shrewd expression that he knows full well it wasn’t intentional.

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” he answers, doing his best to act indifferent. And David doesn’t need to worry - his trousers should be drying out pretty soon, purely from the heat in his boyfriend’s gaze…

It occurs once more to Christian, as David is practically dragged back to the VIP area by Jake, that things really do tend to come in threes. He does everything, up to and including _praying_ , that that’s the case today.


	72. Chapter 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section was written to Hard-Fi’s Fire In The House, which instantly became my Vitaly and Bruno song, just in case you want the soundtrack.

Vitaly doesn’t dance. He’ll go to clubs and drink, hang out at the bar or at a table to one side, happy to look after his friends’ coats and drinks whilst left to his own thoughts and musings, but he won’t join in with the dancing, instead just watching the other people around let go in a way he doesn’t think he’d ever be capable of. There’s an ease about them that isn’t only alcohol, about the way they interact and yet ignore each other so completely, secure in their bubbles despite the crowds, letting the music wash over and through them and moving to it instinctively, without ever seeming to let it interrupt their socialising. He’ll admit that he’s intrigued what that’s like, to connect and disconnect simultaneously from the world around like that, but he’s never figured out how it works, and (in all honesty) he doesn’t really feel like it’s a particularly great loss from his life.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried though - back in his days at the language school they’d come here sometimes, when it had been a smaller, quieter place, and Kamui and Nico had cajoled him onto the dancefloor after an evening spent overindulging on whatever spirits they’d been able to afford, and whilst the two of them had been happily making fools of themselves (neither of them taking the whole dancing lark seriously) Vitaly had been nothing but awkward and uncomfortable, even after several more drinks. It had been no better on other occasions, with different friends, or different music, and after a while they’d all put it aside as a lost cause, everyone happy with the arrangement they’d ended up with.

Apparently though, the memo hadn’t got through to Bruno, because he’s refusing to leave Vitaly alone at their table at the side of the club tonight, only leaving when there was someone else there to keep him company. In Bruno’s defence, they’d never been clubbing together, but still…

“You can dance if you want, I do not mind to be here,” Vitaly insists when Bruno leaves the Brazilians and rejoins him at the table for what must have been the tenth time that night.

“I am not leaving you by yourself!” Bruno laughs, chinking the base of his glass against the rim of Vitaly’s (which was still on the table) and taking a drink.

“I do not mind, I promise,” Vitaly maintains, not happy about making Bruno feel like he had to keep leaving his friends (who currently are attempting to jive and swing together like they’d wandered into the wrong decade, some of them almost collapsing with laughter as tipsy limbs refused to coordinate), especially after the time he’s already missed out on after the accident with Abbey on the stairs. “You know I do not dance. I have said.”

Bruno smiles again, one that teases _I don’t believe you._ “I think you just have not found the right music.”

Vitaly frowns - Bruno of all people wasn’t meant to try to convince him to do something he wasn’t comfortable doing - but then Heikki and Kimi return from the bar with an entire bottle (“For the table!” Heikki swears, with a look on his face that says _“If the rest of the table get back fast enough to drink it before Kimi and I do…”_ and Vitaly knows full well that if there weren’t so many people crammed up at the bar then that would have been where the two Finns would have stayed…), and Bruno leaves Vitaly with a kiss on the cheek and goes back to the now Macarena-dancing Brazilians, several of whom now have ties around their heads for no apparent reason…

The night wears on, the people at Vitaly’s table come and go, and the music changes away from the pop and more mainstream songs, through into the proper dance tunes, whose beats get heavier and thicker and darker, and pulse and pound, subtly changing how the clubbers dance with every track, even if they themselves don’t seem to notice. The lights too are changing, less ambient brightness and swirling colours, and more jagged patches of blazing brilliance and deep shadow, bringing different parts of the floor into an irregular, flickering focus, catching on glittering outfits, on flying hair, on drinks held high. The crowds are thicker now, but Vitaly can still just see Bruno though the people, all of whom are moving in their own unique ways but somehow still all together.

It’s strange to watch Bruno from a distance like this, and stranger still to watch him move like that from so far away – Vitaly’s more used to feeling him move against him, and whilst it’s not _quite_ in the same way there’s a rhythm in his hips and an almost sensual fluidity to his movements, as the beat pumps through the speakers and takes over the whole room, dancers all around bouncing and writhing to the music, that’s more than just familiar, and all that bundled up with Bruno’s enthusiasm and self-confidence and almost permanent smile means that Vitaly is quite content just to be left alone, watching him. Everyone else is so busy with their own thing and the music is so loud that it starts to feel almost like there’s no one else in the club other than the two of them.

Then Bruno is back beside him, shouting in his ear above the music something about how Rubens and Tony had needed a hand up off the floor, something about dodgy knees and twisting too low, and Vitaly can’t really hear him properly and to be honest he doesn’t really care, all he cares about is that Bruno is in his element, expressive and effervescent, completely carefree and nothing but _happy,_ hair fluffy, eyes shining, and laughing through one of his biggest, widest grins, looking even more perfectly _him_ than usual, and Vitaly wants to wrap up this moment and keep it forever.

Bruno catches his eye for a half a second, to check if he’s kept up, to find Vitaly just looking at him with an expression that makes it pretty clear that he was paying attention to everything about him _other_ than what he was actually saying, and then, for reasons Vitaly himself doesn’t understand, because they’re very much in public and Vitaly doesn’t _do_ public, Vitaly’s hand is at the back of Bruno’s neck and he’s kissing him, ignoring the fact that they’re absolutely surrounded by people, because the music is like a thick fog of noise, so loud that it drowns out the existence of anything and anyone else, so he can’t hear them, doesn’t even see them; there’s nothing but kissing Bruno, and it doesn’t feel public in the slightest.

Bruno looks mildly surprised when the kiss breaks, and for a moment he doesn’t say anything at all, just looking straight at Vitaly.

“Do you trust me?”

That was the last thing that Vitaly had expected Bruno to say. Especially as Bruno knows the answer - Vitaly would trust him with his life. He already did, in some ways. But he nods anyway, watching Bruno apprehensively.

“Finish that, and follow me.”

It takes a moment for Vitaly to look away, before he knocks back the last of his drink and allows Bruno to take his hand and lead him to his feet.

When Bruno sets off towards the dancefloor Vitaly tries to stop, pulling Bruno to a halt and looking almost imploringly at him.

“I thought you said you trusted me?” Bruno yells close to his head, then leaning back with a resolute half smile and his eyebrows raised, knowing Vitaly can’t say no to that, and when he pulls on Vitaly’s hand again Vitaly trails behind him obediently (if a little uneasily).

Bruno makes his way between the dancers with ease, heading apparently for the very far side of the floor, skirting around grinding couples, dodging past lively groups, all the while the lights whirling and playing through their myriad patterns and colours and the music throbbing and thumping through the air, starting to morph seamlessly into the next track. Eventually he finds a small gap in the crowds, out of the glare of the strobes and the worst of the brighter lights, where he comes to a stop, gently tugging Vitaly around to face him, and then sliding his arms around his neck. The track changes, the beat low and almost muffled to begin with, giving Bruno a chance to say something into his ear without shouting.

“Just you and me, okay?”

Bruno pulls him close, so close that their bodies are almost touching, and his eyes fall shut, but he’s not moving to kiss Vitaly. His hips are starting to sway gently, almost dreamily, and Vitaly decides that that’s where he wants to put his hands, resting on those hips, as Bruno’s shoulders start to join in, his whole body effortlessly part of the music already. Vitaly can’t help but pull him closer, letting their foreheads touch, and he just feels how Bruno moves, under his hands, transferred across to his own body where Bruno’s arms are draped around his neck still, and it’s hypnotic, just to watch and feel like this. The rest of the room fades away when Bruno’s around anyway, but like this – concentrating so hard on how Bruno’s moving under his hands – there’s simply no space in his head for anything else in the world other than this, them, and the music, woven in to the moment through Bruno’s movements.

Then Bruno nudges at his nose and is kissing him again, and Vitaly doesn’t understand how but somehow it’s in time with the music, even though it isn’t, and Bruno is still moving, hasn’t stopped his subtle shifting, and Vitaly feels himself overwhelmed entirely, surrendering, the lights through his closed eyes knocking his senses off balance whilst the music cocoons them, safe away from everything, everything else melting away until he’s kissing back with the same languid rhythm that seems to be in all of Bruno’s infectiously liquid movements, and he’s lost track of his own heartbeat, replaced by the beat of the track still playing, and he feels a thousand million miles away.

Bruno breaks the kiss slowly, letting it end as pressed lips, then touching noses, but he doesn’t look back up immediately; he’s still dancing, the music still playing, as if it’s all part of the same thing.

It takes a few moments for the realisation to work into Vitaly’s mind, because it’s still full of the man in front of him, in his arms, but somewhere along the way he’s found and unconsciously slid into his own rhythm, that’s not entirely his, because Bruno is moving with him (or he’s moving with Bruno, he’s not sure), but even though he’ll be the first to admit it’s still stiff and more constrained than Bruno, they’re somehow echoing each other, like it’s neither of them and both of them at the same time, and it feels so completely natural, like he’s always known how to do this, that he doesn’t stop to question it, doesn’t try to stop it at all, just resting his forehead against Bruno’s and letting his eyes fall shut again, the rest of the room seeming to vanish once more as the music all around them builds.

*

Whatever song it was reaches its peak, and starts to fade out into the next, and Vitaly opens his eyes again, feeling like he’s waking up, to find Bruno watching him, smiling knowingly. Then Bruno puts his mouth close enough to Vitaly’s ear that he doesn’t have to shout, breath ghosting warm against his skin.

“Now tell me you want to go sit down again…”

*

“Have you seen Vitaly?” Kamui yells over the music, sliding into the booth next to Timo and Heikki (having left Checo and Esteban to their own devices on the dancefloor…).

Heikki angles his head in the direction of the dancefloor. “He’s dancing!” he yells back.

“No, I said, Where. Is. _Vi-ta-ly?”_ Kamui repeats, more slowly and even louder.

“I said, _over there!”_ Heikki takes hold of Kamui’s shoulders and turns him to face the dancefloor, pointing through the hordes of people to the far side to where Bruno and Vitaly are just visible, still with their arms around each other, still dancing together.

“What are you looking at?” Nico shouts, appearing with a couple of drinks in hand for them all, and then turning to follow their staring. “Is that _Vitaly?!”_

They would all keep watching, but there’s something intimate and private about the way they’re dancing, even though it isn’t showy or even overtly sexy in any way, just as if there was no one else in the club at all, and they find themselves looking away, like they’ve intruded on something that isn’t theirs to see.

“I guess Vitaly dances now!” Nico shrugs in amazement.

“Maybe he found the right music,” Kimi says, appearing from nowhere behind Heikki, his usual mumble somehow audible over the beat without sounding any louder at all.


	73. Chapter 73

No one knows what time it is precisely – inside the club time doesn’t really mean anything; people stay until they’ve had enough or until the doors close – but the busiest part of the night is starting to fade out, the music beginning to lose any distinguishable lyrics and plateau into the hypnotic thudding laced with vague, repetitive, electronic tunes of the early hours, the lazy beats almost floating the dancers along until dawn on a stream of seamless tracks. The dancefloor begins to thin out, exhausted clubbers cramming onto sofas or around tables to rest aching legs, whilst most couples have split away from their groups, whether that’s to stay dancing or to tuck themselves away in secluded booths or corners where the music isn’t so overpowering and they can get to know each other better (or “get to know each other better”, as the case may be…). Nico and Paul haven’t been seen for hours, Kamui has given up looking for Checo and Esteban entirely, Jake and DC have retreated back to the VIP area, and Dan and Jean-Eric clearly have other, more important things on their minds than taking anymore photos tonight. Rob and Felipe though have stayed with the other remaining Brazilians, because this is Felipe, but Rob’s behind him now, with his arms wrapped around his waist, Felipe leant back against his chest. And by this point in the night Vitaly would usually be sitting to one side, wondering in bemusement how people can stay on their feet dancing for what seems to be hours straight, but tonight, with Bruno by his side like this, he doesn’t even notice that he’s done precisely that.

Even the bar has quietened enough for a handful of people to grab barstools or claim leaning space against the bar itself - at one end there’s Kimi and Heikki, able now to keep their vodka bottle between just the two of them without having to share with the rest of their table from earlier, Heikki shouting over the music and making Kimi smile at something incomprehensible in their native language, until Timo turns up, fed up of losing Nico and Paul every time he turns around, and Kimi dismisses them both with a wave away onto the dancefloor, keeping the bottle next to him on the bar. At the other end, Rob’s friends from the factory are savouring bottles of ice cold beer, whilst just along from Kimi, there’s Fernando, who is watching Mark’s display and leisurely sipping his red wine whilst Lewis natters in his ear about something he’s clearly paying very little attention to, and equally clearly doesn’t care about in the slightest.

“So I hear Adrian’s coming back to town?” Fernando interrupts suddenly, bored of Lewis’ mindless yakking, and Lewis chokes on his drink.

When he’s finished spluttering he glares daggers at Fernando. “Well I sure didn’t invite him,” he snaps, before slamming his glass down on the bar and storming off.

From his position just down the bar, Kimi silently raises his eyebrows at Fernando, who smiles in faux innocence and shrugs. Kimi just shakes his head and goes back to his vodka.

Slowly the orders at the bar start to drop off too, as an increasing proportion of partygoers remember that there’s another night to go tomorrow, so Christian sends Abbey home, Mark finally gets another break (going straight over to Fernando at the bar, where the two of them are soon deep in conversation and ignoring everyone else around), and Seb finds he’s serving fewer and fewer rounds of shots and trays of cocktails and instead ever-growing numbers of jugs and glasses of water.

Except to one person in particular.

“You alright Kimi?” Seb still has to almost shout to be heard over the music, but Kimi doesn’t appear to hear him. “KIMI!”

Kimi blinks labouredly, as if trying to remember which muscles in his face do what, and unsteadily raises his head away from his glass on the bar in front of him to look at Seb. He’s got a glazed look, and he squints, apparently unable to quite focus on whoever’s talking to him.

Then he shrugs, a heavy, lurching movement, and it makes him sway on his seat, Seb reaching quickly across the bar to steady his friend, who looks at risk of falling off his stool.

“Woah, Kimi, _shit_ … How much have you had to drink??” Seb tries to pluck the tumbler of some clear spirit out of Kimi’s hands, but pissed or not, Kimi still has a vice-like grip, refusing to let go of his precious vodka. Seb loses the brief tug of war and Kimi knocks back what was left of it in one, before glaring crookedly at Seb.

“Fewvodkas, som’rum, vodka, couple ofcocktails, wine, errvodka, Ithink champagne, ‘nothervodka, beer…s, vodka, an’, morvodka…” Kimi counts the drinks off on his fingers as he lists them, occasionally missing his hand and just hitting the bar instead, his coordination shot.

“No more for you, you are _wasted.”_ Seb is pretty sure that this is the most drunk he’s ever seen Kimi, and he can’t help but laugh, because Kimi would be _pissing_ himself if it was Seb in this state. Plus this is _Kimi_ , so Seb is considering finding Dan or JEV to get a photo of this, for proof…

But then Kimi _looks_ at him, and he’s got a strange, distant expression that Seb doesn’t recognise (and that if he had to put a word to, it would be _nostalgic_ , or perhaps even _regretful)_ and suddenly this isn’t funny anymore.

“Seriously, Kimi, are you ok? You’re worrying me…”

Kimi shrugs again, perhaps even more unsteadily than before.

“Do you ever, wonder…” he begins, or at least that’s what Seb _thinks_ he says, because he’s slurring appallingly still, and that doesn’t make his usual mumble any easier to comprehend.

He shakes his head in confusion, as if trying to shake the alcohol away so he can form sentences again, and tries again. “D’you ever think, if, maybe…” and he waves his hand in a large, uncoordinated gesture between the two of them, and then gives up on the whole explaining thing, instead just looking at Seb with that same weird expression.

Then without any warning he lurches across the bar, supporting himself on one hand while the other grabs at the front of Seb’s shirt and yanks him into a rough, uncoordinated kiss.

The _FUCK?!_

Seb pretty much freezes in shock, eyes wide in astonishment, only just managing to prop himself up on the edge of the bar, because Kimi has dragged him onto his very tiptoes and he’s struggling to stand. Even though it’s distantly familiar, it’s not like any kiss Seb has ever shared with Kimi before – there’s a hint of something to it that Seb might label as _desperation_ if he wasn’t too busy wondering what the _HOLY FUCK_ was going on…

Kimi’s eyes are shut, and after a brief moment Seb can feel (and see) him relax into it. He doesn’t give Seb any leeway to pull away though, that vice-like grip of his now fixed onto the front of Seb’s shirt as opposed to his vodka glass.

Then Kimi relaxes even more. Too much, in fact, his grip on Seb’s shirt loosening and his lips slipping away, and when his head lands heavily onto the bar Seb realises he’s passed out. Mid kiss.

The egotistical part of Seb’s brain remembers to be offended by that, even though the rest of him is busy staring dumbly and trying to comprehend the last minute or so. And trying to figure out what the heck happens _now_ , with his now-unconscious best friend sprawled across the bar in front of him…

That question at least is answered for him though.

“Oh for god’s sake!” Christian sighs, and Seb almost jumps out of his skin at his boss’ voice just behind him.

“I didn’t, he just…!” Seb frantically tries to explain, but Christian cuts him off.

“Seb, I don’t even _care_. All I know is that you’re going to have to get him out of here yourself, Ciaron and Rocky have their hands full with the bloody sprinkler system still… Just deal with him.” Christian sounds exhausted. “Now,” he adds, when Seb doesn’t immediately jump into action, with the steel in his voice that brooks no argument whatsoever, before turning and leaving again, muttering something along the lines of _at least it isn’t bloody Jenson this time…_

Seb’s face falls. Kimi hasn’t even moved, apparently completely out cold (in fact, is he _snoring?!)_ – there’s no chance he’s going to be able to make it back to his place by himself. Seb looks frantically around for Heikki, or Vitaly, or any of Kimi’s other friends, even Fernando, but no one helpful is anywhere to be seen.

“I’ll help you get him out, but I can’t help you get him home,” Mark offers, having reappeared from his break (and that’d be where Fernando had got to then…) just as Christian had rushed off again. “I’ve got to get back up there. Sorry…”

*

Kimi remains a dead weight as Mark and Seb practically carry him through the back corridors and to the alley at the back of the club (better than having to deal with him on their front doorstep, in view of anyone and everyone), and the two of them try not to drop him onto the ground too hard, sitting him up and propping him against the wall before Mark gives Seb a sympathetic slap on the back and disappears inside again, leaving Seb alone in the freezing cold and the beginnings of an early morning drizzle of rain. His coat’s inside, but he can’t leave Kimi out here alone…

“Errrrwhere’smyvodka?” Seb’s attention is brought back to his charge as Kimi stirs, the cold apparently pulling him back towards consciousness.

“You,” Seb announces, pointing down at him like an angry kindergarten teacher, “aren’t getting _any_ more vodka. Or anything else alcoholic.”

Kimi just blinks up at him.

Seb sighs, bends down, puts his shoulder underneath Kimi’s arm, and hauls him to his feet with a mutual groan, but that’s as far as Seb can get him, Kimi apparently resistant to actually moving from this location, content to lean against Seb’s head, making himself quite at home there and mumbling drowsily. “Come on Kimi, let’s go.” Kimi still does his best to keep them where they are, and Seb groans – it’s gonna be a long trip home. “There’s vodka at your place, right?” Suddenly Kimi becomes significantly more compliant, and Seb sighs to himself again as they set off at a stagger. Whilst going home with someone who’d kissed them might have been a nice way to end the night for most people, had someone told Seb that was on the cards for him tonight, this was really _not_ what he would have thought of…


	74. Chapter 74

Heikki should have remembered how persuasive Kimi is. He really should, after all those years of ill-advised adventures and nights of overindulgence, but he always seems to forget. It’s just something about Kimi. His bored-sounding delivery makes any idea, no matter how impractically crazy, sound far more reasonable than it is, especially when he slows down even further to a considered hum that makes listeners strain to hear, instantly making them both curious and more likely to go along with any plot he’s concocting. Objections shrivel and die at his merest raised eyebrow, long before his flat dismissal is even needed, opinions and possibilities become rock solid fact in his emotionless monotone, nothing in his voice other than disinterested supreme confidence. Heikki should be used to it all by now - he’s known his friend for long enough really - but even his Finnish blood isn’t a defence against the sheer force of Kimi’s Kiminess, the almost blinkered conviction once he has an idea in his head. Then mix that with the likelihood that any planning with Kimi will involve more alcohol than most people can handle and it’s no wonder Heikki has found himself swept up again, just like he always does with Kimi, agreeing to things he would never have thought to be a good idea otherwise, and never stopping once to think it through by himself, thinking himself immune to Kimi’s powers of persuasion after years of friendship, only to realise when he’s balanced on top of the town hall with a traffic cone in his hand and sirens in the distance that really, he’s no more immune than any other mere mortal (though Heikki at least hopes he’s learnt his lesson about climbing public buildings after _that_ incident…). And as terrible ideas went, Heikki was pretty sure that this one was rocketing to the top of the list of all the terrible ideas he’d ever come across, let alone participated in (and having spent many, many years hanging out with Kimi, they were both impressively long lists).

But this time was different. Usually it was just Kimi and his mates causing minor havoc. This time Kimi had got it into his head to fix someone else’s problem. And if this ridiculous, idiotic plan failed, then it wasn’t just going to be a slap on the wrist from Detective Whiting. Kimi had gone and got his ex’s heart involved. And now, when their plan was reaching the point of no return, the point after which every piece had to fall perfectly into place, or they’d have made an irreparable mess of a situation that wasn’t even really their business, Heikki finds himself relegated to the sidelines, with nothing to do but sit and worry himself into a knot that everything was going to fail catastrophically.

Heikki leans out from the booth he’s sharing with Timo to try and get a better view of the bar. He really should have sat on the other side of their table, then he wouldn’t have to be attempting yoga poses just to catch a glimpse of what Kimi’s up to right now. As per the plan, he’d waited until the night had quietened down a bit before he'd left Kimi with the vodka at the bar by himself, to sit and mope until he got Seb’s attention. And the moping at least seemed to be going to plan - it turned out that Kimi could act drunk, depressed, and rueful rather well. But just because that bit was going better than expected didn’t mean the rest would… It wasn’t too late though, not yet, there was still time if Heikki wanted to call a halt to this, he could still go back over, make sure Kimi didn’t get Seb’s undivided attention and…

“Heikki, are you alright?”

Wound up in his worry, Heikki had almost forgotten that Timo was still there.

“Fine, fine,” he dismisses, anything but believable, and not helped by how he immediately goes back to leaning out of the booth, trying to keep an eye on events at the bar again.

“Yeah right, Heikki. I’m not an idiot. What’s going on?”

Shit, this is the worst time for Timo to be asking questions, because the bar’s gone properly quiet now and Seb has joined Kimi, where he’s slumped forward…

“Heikki!”

Heikki spins around to find Timo looking genuinely concerned.

“Seriously, what’s up? You’re worrying me.”

“It’s nothing, it’s just Kimi…”

“Kimi?” Timo gives Heikki a strange sort of look. “You don’t have to sit here with me, you know, I can keep myself occupied. If you need to go talk to him, then go.”

“It’s not like that…” Heikki’s too distracted for his denial to sound entirely genuine, which doesn’t help anything. “Kimi’s just my friend, Timo, you know that.”

“You sure about that? Because you’re both acting weird tonight.”

“Yes, Timo, I’m sure.”

“So what is it? Because there’s _something_ going on with you two this evening.”

Heikki needs to give an explanation (Timo won’t leave it alone if he doesn’t) but he’s not meant to tell anyone - there’s _no_ chance of it working if Seb _knows_ he’s being played… “No, Kimi just needs some time with Seb…”

“Kimi and Seb? Really?!” Timo lights up in delighted surprise at the prospect of unexpected News, and Heikki’s eyes widen in panic at what he might have just unleashed.

“No!” If that idea gets around (and Jenson hears it) then any chance this ridiculous plan has will be scuppered beyond repair. “No no no no no! There really isn’t! Honestly!”

Timo looks severely unconvinced. “Then what the hell _is_ going on?”

Heikki gives in. If he wasn’t having to have this conversation at almost shouting volume over deafening music and after an entire night’s drinks he might have stood a chance at talking his way out of it, inventing some plausible excuse, but as it is, he’s just going to have to tell Timo, and hope that everything works out.

So he explains. How Kimi was going to pretend to get horribly drunk, then make a “drunken” (Heikki makes the air quotes as he talks) move on Seb in sight of Jenson (which there was no risk of Seb responding to in kind, because everyone knew Seb had eyes only for Jenson), so that the shock of seeing that would make Jenson realise how he obviously felt.

“Then, hopefully, they will both get their act together and stop driving us all mad with their moping,” he finishes, trying for more conviction in his voice than he feels.

Heikki didn’t think it was possible, but it sounds even dumber out loud.

“That’s a terrible plan,” Timo says, mustering words after a moment of sheer confusion.

“I know,” Heikki groans, before he sinks his head forward into his hands.

“No really. It’s terrible. How did you ever think that was a good idea?!”

“I don’t know…” Heikki groans again. “Champagne sorbet, I think. With extra champagne…”

“What if Jenson really isn’t interested in Seb? What if Seb still has feelings for Kimi? What if Jenson thinks they’re getting back together so backs off entirely? What if Jenson doesn’t even see?!” Heikki shrugs pathetically, and Timo stretches upwards to glance at the bar. “Seriously, you can’t let Kimi do this.”

“He’ll be furious for _months_ if I try to stop him.”

“So what?! Look, they’re only just talking still, let’s go back over there, you can blame me or something if Kimi sulks about it, we can stop him before…”

Heikki turns once more to join Timo in looking at the bar, only to realise they’re too late – they’re just in time to see Kimi lunge across the bar and take hold of Seb’s shirt front, dragging him into a collision of a kiss that’s almost worryingly believable. Though from Seb’s frankly bewildered look, Heikki isn’t the only one finding the whole thing rather convincing.

“Fuck,” Timo exhales. Heikki picks up his drink and downs the whole thing in one, never taking his eyes off the scene unfolding at the bar.

“You can say that again,” Heikki says, eventually tearing his gaze away.

It’s only then that he realises that somehow, Kimi has managed to time it perfectly, because there’s Jenson, stopped dead on his way to the bar, with an absolutely _stricken_ look.

Heikki turns back to the table, and Timo just has time to give Heikki a pitying look before Nico flumps down into the seats alongside them.

“Alright guys? Phew, I’m knackered!” Paul almost collapses next to Nico, shuffling into Nico’s side until he scoots over to make space. “You should have come dancing again, you two. Even Bruno and Vitaly are still out there!”

Just because Jenson’s seen, that’s no guarantee of anything – there are still plenty of ways for this to go horribly wrong – and Heikki’s rarely been so glad for an interruption to stop him worrying himself stupid again. Thankfully Timo doesn’t even hint about the conversation they’ve just had, so Heikki is spared having to explain the whole thing all over again. He wonders though if Nico can tell that there’s something going on; he’s known Timo for years, but he seems too wrapped up in Paul, a turn of phrase that’s becoming worryingly literal until Timo leans across the table and drops a slightly sticky ice cube from his glass down Nico’s collar.

In the brief moment before the inevitable mayhem ensues Heikki glances over his shoulder again to the bar. Seb and Kimi are nowhere to be seen anymore, and Jenson’s tucked away at a tiny table in a corner, cradling a glass of something spirit-like and looking nearly as distressed as Heikki had seen him on those nights at the bar after Nico had left him.

This has all got to work out now, because it’s going to be one heck of a mess to clear up if it doesn’t.

*

“Eurgh, can you _believe_ that guy?!” Lewis falls back dramatically against the wall next to Jenson’s table, where he’s been hiding out of view of the bar, ignoring Jenson’s shellshocked expression and the way he’s staring into blank space, still almost speechless over what he’d just seen (and how he’d found himself reacting to it), to launch into a tirade about Fernando, about Adrian, about Nico and Nels, and a thousand other things. Jenson’s not listening though, barely even registering that Lewis is talking to him – he’s got a thousand things of his own spinning around his head that he’s trying to get to grips with without Lewis dumping his complaints on him as well.

“…don’t you agree man? …Jens?”

Jenson tunes in again as he hears his name. He has no idea what Lewis just asked him. And right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Sorry Lewis, I don’t follow you… In fact,” Jenson admits, no longer bothered about being his usual polite and tactful self, “I don’t think I ever did.”

Lewis stares in shock, and then explodes. “You know what? That’s it. Fuck this, and fuck the lot of you. I don’t know why I cared in the first place. I’m going the hell home.”

“Sure, whatever,” Jenson mutters distractedly to the empty space where his colleague had been standing, but then he’s spotted Mark reappearing from the offices, about to start the final part of his routine, and his attention is taken up again by his own issues.

“Mark!” Mark stops at the sound of his friend’s voice even over the thump of the music as Jenson jogs over to the bar. “What happened to Seb and Kimi?!”

“Well Seb won’t be back tonight I don’t think, he’s taking Kimi home. He’s done a you, mate, had one or two too many, and got a bit mopey…” Mark just chuckles to himself. “Sorry Jens, can’t stay to chat, I’ve already spent too long on breaks tonight, Christian will have my guts!”

Mark is up on the raised bar before he would have had the chance to notice Jenson’s expression.

*

The chilly drizzle doesn’t let up on the trek back to Kimi’s place, but thankfully, as with Jenson, Kimi begins to sober up as the journey progresses, the weight which had previously been almost entirely supported by Seb slowly transferring back to Kimi’s own legs, much to Seb’s relief – he’s getting bored of carrying people home now, and Kimi is heavier than Jenson too…

For everything to go smoothly from there on in though would have been too much to ask on tonight of all nights – Kimi, unlike Jenson, isn’t sobering up in the normal manner. Instead, he’s working backwards through his stages of drunkenness, and Seb shortly finds he’s got his hands full with Kimi at the peak of his inebriated exuberance. This is the Kimi who thinks that it’s a brilliant plan to dance on tables, climb onto bars, swing from chandeliers, set _every one of his drinks on fire,_ and generally attempt the type of stupid stunts that end with a not-insignificant repair bill turning up in the morning. And just because they’re out in the cold, dark streets of Fia by night, rather than some brightly lit bar somewhere, doesn’t mean that Kimi isn’t doing his best to run riot, climbing fire escapes, jumping onto high, narrow walls, demanding to go exploring, and giving his temporary minder six different heart-attacks on each new street. It’s all Seb can do to chase after him, Kimi ignoring Seb’s yells to _get the hell back here,_ or _get down from there before you break your neck,_ until Kimi eventually decides that he knows a better way back to his flat, and sprints down a dimly lit alley with a slurred declaration to “leave me alone, I know what I’m doing!”

“But there’s a _gate_ …” Seb protests feebly, leaning one hand against the damp brick wall of the alley and trying to get his breath back, exasperated almost to the end of his patience.

From the sodium-lit gloom at the other end of the narrow street there’s a metallic clang and rattle of a person running at full tilt into a chain link fence, and a thud and clatter of said person ricocheting off it, into the miscellaneous boxes piled against the wall, and falling onto the ground, followed by a muffled groan of “owwww…”

“Serves you right,” Seb mumbles, and tries not to laugh when Kimi comes stumbling back, desperately trying to hide his wounded pride.

*

Kimi retreats back into an almost sulky quietness for the rest of the journey home, and seems remarkably sober by the time they reach the top of the stairs, almost entirely himself again (Seb can’t help but wonder though why none of his friends live on the ground floor of anywhere).

“Right, let’s get you inside…”

Kimi swats Seb’s hand away to halt his attempt to fish Kimi’s door keys out from his pocket, and digs them out himself, his coordination obviously back to normal.

“I can get myself into my own house.”

“You sure about that? Because okay, you seem sober enough now I guess, but if you’d seen yourself earlier…”

Kimi pauses in opening his door to reply with a withering glare. _Yup, back to normal._ Like he’d barely drunk a thing all night.

“Oh, and talking of earlier tonight…” Seb scratches at the side of his head and looks away, hearing Kimi pause again, this time with his door now open and Kimi himself halfway across the threshold, “about what you said, about us, you know, getting back together…” Seb looks up quickly to find Kimi with his eyebrows slightly raised, and no other decipherable expression.

“Never said anything like that. And I’m not interested.”

“Good, because it wouldn’t work Kimi, I don’t think about you like that anymore, and you know I like… wait, hang on, yes you did, at the bar, you…”

“Goodnight Seb.”

The door shuts in Seb’s face, leaving him staring at the brass numbers.

“Right…” _Well that was conclusive. Or not._ He’d have to tackle Kimi at some other time, because he probably shouldn’t just leave something as confusing as this evening hanging over them. But he’s not going to be hammering on Kimi’s door to get him to come out again and insist on discussing it right this second, certainly not after a day this long. And then again, perhaps it _was_ better if they both just forgot the whole confusing episode. Or at least pretended that it hadn’t happened…

Seb sighs and checks his watch. And swears. By the time he’d make it back to the bar, even if he _ran_ (and he’s had quite enough of running for one night), there’d be about half an hour left before it closed. Plus he’s damp, cold, and _knackered._ “Like hell am I going back in,” he grumbles, and announces to the closed door in front of him that he’s going _home._

*

Heikki hasn’t seen Kimi or Seb since the incident at the bar, and he’s starting to worry where they’ve got to, wondering if the unthinkable has happened, and they actually _have_ got back together, so he slips away from his table to somewhere quieter, firing off a text.

_[[ hey kimi, where are you? ]]_

Heikki waits nervously for the reply, but he doesn’t have to wait long, and the answer has him laughing out loud at the mental images.

_[[ Seb walked me home. So I took as long as I could. Annoyed the hell out of him then locked him out. He sounds too pissed off to go back to the bar. Damn funny. You? ]]_

He can just picture Seb, having put up with Kimi being as irritating as possible all the way back to his house, finding Kimi’s front door shut in his face. Sounds like everything went far better than planned at Kimi’s end.

_[[ ha! i’m still at the bar. jenson saw, definitely. might go talk to him now, see how he’s doing ]]_

Right, time to find Jenson…

*

“Ugh, I can’t take this anymore. I’m sorry Nels, there’s something I’ve got to do…”

*

“What are you still doing here?”

Jenson looks up in shock and (if he’s honest) slight panic to see his ex-boyfriend sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Nico! Sorry, I didn’t see you there… I’ll just, be going…” He’s already half out of his seat, not wanting to upset either of them or cause a scene tonight, before he realises that Nico is simply shaking his head with an amused smile on his face, his voice a fond, chiding tone rather than the accusatory anger he’d automatically assumed it would be.

“Calm down Jenson, I’m not saying you have to leave just because I’ve turned up,” Nico almost laughs, and Jenson smiles uncertainly back. “But I do want to know why you’re still here.”

“I, er, because the party isn’t over yet…?” The answer seems too obvious, but Jenson can’t think what else Nico might mean, certainly not with the way his head is in knots after everything that’s happened tonight, and certainly not now it’s spinning into near-panicked overthinking from having Nico turn up when he was least prepared for it. Although… whilst he might be absurdly over-anxious, this isn’t how he expected his first encounter with Nico to go… and that’s not a bad thing at all – he doesn’t feel like he’s shattering into pieces just to be near Nico and be unable to hold him, in fact, even though there’s no denying that Nico looks as good as he always did, Jenson finds he’s not having to suppress any of the expected old urges to drag him off somewhere and have his wicked way with him. Instead it all feels very, normal. And that’s unexpected. But good. Definitely good. Maybe this could be okay again after all…

But Nico’s smiling a funny, half-knowing, half-pitying little smile, and after his brief moment of clarity Jenson is back to being confused as all hell again.

“That’s not what I meant, Jenson, and you know it. I meant that Seb left with Kimi absolutely ages ago, and for some reason you’re still here. Why?”

“Because Seb left with _Kimi_ …” Jenson’s voice sounds more strained than he expected, delivering what must be another obvious answer, surely. “And if that was you and me leaving together, do you think _we’d_ appreciate it if someone came chasing after us telling us that it was a terrible idea or something?”

Nico just laughs. “We might not appreciate it, but they’d be _right,_ us two leaving together _would_ be a terrible idea. Probably even worse than those two.” Then Nico tilts his head to look over non-existent glasses at Jenson. “And let’s just say that I haven’t heard anything about Seb pining after _Kimi_ recently…”

Nico’s expression hasn’t changed, like he’s waiting for something from Jenson. Jenson can’t quite figure out what it is.

Then Nico shakes his head again.

“You’re hopeless, Jenson! _Anyone_ can see how miserable you’ve been ever since they left.” Nico takes Jenson’s glass straight out of his hands and finishes it for him, leaving him no excuse to stay any longer. “For god’s sake, go after him. Before you lose your chance entirely and end up never forgiving yourself, I know you, Jens.” Jenson still doesn’t move, staring slightly at his ex, convinced he hasn’t heard him right. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

Jenson gives Nico a pained sort of smile, one that says _I can’t believe you’re okay with this,_ and _thank you,_ and Nico dismisses it with a wave; _it’s fine._

Then Jenson’s gone, and Nico doesn’t think he’s ever seen him move so fast in his life.

*

“All sorted now?”

Nico smiles, maybe just a little sadly, but that’s gone before anyone could notice it.

“Just about, yeah…”

“Do you honestly think someone can stay in love with someone for that long?”

Nico gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, I reckon so. Seb seems to have managed it, no question. Don’t think I ever could. Why, do you?”

Nelson shrugs as well, as noncommittally as he can manage. “I think it depends on the person.”

Neither of them are looking at each other, despite the fact that they’re leaning so close that they’re almost touching, and when they both look back they do so simultaneously, eyes meeting accidentally.

“You weren’t thinking of, were you?” Nico asks, brow creasing. “Because that’s an even worse idea than Seb and Kimi getting back together, we both know that!” Nico laughs, because it really, really is. Nelson smiles quickly and swipes his hair out of his eyes, because he knows it too, really.

“Yeah, no, I know, of course I wasn’t,” he brushes off.

“Anyway,” Nico slings an arm around his friend’s shoulders, “one last drink before the bar closes?”

*

“Oof!”

It takes a while, but Heikki finds the person he was looking for a little more abruptly than intended as Jenson collides with him at the door, not having been looking where he was going, one arm already in a coat sleeve.

“Sorry Heikki, can’t stop, gotta go…”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to find Seb!” Heikki tries not to smile. Against all odds, everything seems to be working out. And before Heikki can say anything else, Jenson stops again suddenly, grabbing Heikki by the shoulders and almost shaking him. “Wait, no, in fact, I needed to find you, tell me quickly, where does Kimi live??”

“Kimi? Why?” Heikki does his best to sound surprised. _Someone really has done all his work for him…_

“They, um, they left together, Kimi had too much to drink apparently, you didn’t see? And… I have to find them.”

 _Success._ “Ah, I wondered where Kimi had got to… Seb, eh? I imagine they will have gone to Seb’s house actually – it’s closer than Kimi’s,” Heikki says, knowing full well that Seb and Kimi are at their own respective houses, and horror flickers across Jenson’s face at the knowing tone Heikki puts on.

“Thanks,” Jenson says, apparently relieved to know where they’ll be, smiling as best he can through the impending panic, and then he dashes off down the corridor with a cry of “Coming through!” as he barges through the surprised group coming back out from the cloakroom.

Heikki pulls out his phone again as Jenson vanishes through the main door.

_[[ jenson’s on his way to seb’s place now… i assume you’re not coming back tonight?! ]]_

_[[ No. Too early to sleep though. Drink at mine? ]]_

Heikki sticks his head back into the club, but the table where Timo and company had been is empty now, and no one he knows is anywhere to be seen. And wherever they are, they can probably look after themselves. After all, they don’t have Kimi plotting away about them, so they’ll be fine…

_[[ why not! if you promise to tell me all the stories! ]]_


	75. Chapter 75

The rain gets harder as Seb heads back to his flat, the drops icy cold against his skin, starting to seep through his thin work tshirt and making him shiver, leaving him wishing he hadn’t left his coat back at the bar. He struggles with his lock with shaking hands, and is stripping off his clammy clothes as he crosses the front room and heads straight for the bathroom, turning the heat up full and getting straight under the scorching water, the whole room soon full of thick, warm steam. It doesn’t take long for the feeling in his fingers to come back, but he’s in no hurry to move from under the spray. His head is still spinning from Kimi’s weirdness, because on the one hand, he’d seemed completely and totally sincere when he’d declared on his doorstep less than an hour ago that he wasn’t interested in the slightest, but on the other hand, he’d fucking _kissed_ him, and _that_ hadn’t seemed insincere either…

Seb lets his head fall against the frosted glass of the shower and sighs. He was too tired to be thinking about that now. He’d talk to Kimi in the morning, or something. He’s had enough to think about these past few weeks without this lunacy. Right now, he just wants to go to bed.

He’s just finished getting into his pyjamas, still scrubbing at his damp hair with a towel when he hears a banging noise from the corridor. He tries to ignore it, writing it off as other drunken partygoers in his building falling up the stairs or locking themselves out of their flats. But it comes again, more persistent this time, and he realises that it’s coming from his own front door.

“If that’s you, Kimi,” he mutters to himself as he marches back across his flat, ditching the towel amongst his scattered clothing on the floor, “I swear to god I will not be responsible…” and he yanks the door open, unimpressed scowl already in place.

It’s not Kimi.

“Please don’t get back together with him.”

“…Jenson?” Seb stares stupidly for a moment, wondering when he missed the memo that tonight was going to be confusing as _fuck_. Jenson meanwhile is twitchy, not quite able to stand still, slightly flushed and his hair messy, like he’d run up the stairs at the very least, and damp from the rain, watching Seb apprehensively; not checking him out, but looking him over, like he’s searching for some kind of clue in his appearance (a clue to _what_ though Seb hasn’t yet figured out).

“Don’t get back together with Kimi. Please,” he adds on the end, and Seb screws up his face and shakes his head in disbelief, trying to figure out for the second time that night what was going on. “You shouldn’t get back together with someone you left for a reason just because you think the person you really want doesn’t want you. Not that I know what the reason was with you and Kimi, not that _anybody_ does, so I guess if it was a rubbish reason and you still love him, and if he still loves _you_ , then I guess I can’t stop you, not that I could stop you anyway, but, oh boy, er…”

“Jenson,” Seb interrupts. “I’m not getting back with Kimi,” he says slowly.

“Really?”

“I promise. There is nothing going on with me and Kimi. And I’m certainly not in love with him.”

“Because I saw you in the bar… and then I was told you’d left together, and…”

Seb groans, leaning against his open door and putting his head in his other hand. He was going to _kill_ Kimi for this mess he’d caused. “I don’t know _what_ was going on tonight… Kimi’s just a friend now, he _knows_ that… And he knows about,” Seb stops short of saying _us_ , because that word implies too much, “…me, and you.” Seb swallows, aware that Jenson is still watching him, and hurries on with his explanation. “And he was rambling on about _what ifs_ , well, he said about eight words, but that’s rambling for Kimi,” and Jenson almost laughs at that, “and I had to take him home because he was too drunk to _stand_ , I mean he passed out on me, Jens, literally _on_ me, but by the time I’d got him back to his house he was denying ever having said anything of the sort, and looking at me like I’m insane, like I’d hallucinated the whole thing.” He groans again and drops his head. “Perhaps I _am_ insane. Perhaps that’s the only reason you’re standing on my doorstep at stupid a.m. and pleading with me not to get back with my ex. I’m actually asleep. I’ve fallen asleep in the break room and any minute now Christian’s going to come in and yell at me until I wake up.”

There’s a pause, during which Seb looks up again to see Jenson visibly processing everything he’s just been told.

“So, I didn’t interrupt anything then?” Jenson’s eyes dart to the floor, and Seb realises that there’s a trail of wet clothing strewn across his carpet still and he answered the door angrily and dressed for bed…

“Shit, no! No, I took him back to his house and left him there. And I _assume_ that’s where he still is.”

Jenson’s entire stance changes, the tight nervousness falling away until he looks like _Jenson_ again, and he laughs with such relief that he sounds a little bit manic. “Oh thank god! You took so long to answer the door, I thought, I thought…” and he just looks at Seb, lost for words and gesturing helplessly.

Seb finds he’s feeling like he did on the night he accidentally confessed to Jenson – lightheaded, with his heart thumping and his stomach in knots.

“You thought what, Jens…” he asks, carefully, not daring to hope. “In fact, why do you care at all if I’m getting back with Kimi anyway?”

“I thought, you’d given up waiting for me. And I realised, that I wasn’t ok with that. And maybe I should stop keeping you waiting.”

No, this isn’t like last time – this is the exact opposite, because it’s Jenson with the hopeful declarations, and Seb with the exhausted disbelief, and even though his chest contracts and his breathing gets unsteady just at hearing those words out of Jenson’s mouth, directed at _him_ , he needs to know for sure.

“What precisely are you saying, Jenson, because I don’t want to misunderstand you again, and get my hopes up like last time, only to find that you still don’t want anything, yet or at all, or that anything that does happen turns out to be just a fling, or…”

Jenson shifts a little awkwardly, but his expression is as open and honest as Seb’s ever seen it, and his voice is steady.

“You know I said I wasn’t ready to even consider anything new yet? I’ve had time to think now, and I’ll be honest, I still didn’t think I was really ready, but I think I was overthinking, because after what happened at the bar tonight I thought I might’ve missed my chance with you entirely, and that turned out to be definitely not okay. Hurt quite a lot actually. I guess I hadn’t even noticed how much I’d changed my mind.” Jenson offers an apologetic little smile. “I’m saying I’m an idiot, basically, and that I’m hoping I haven’t waited too long…”

Sebastian is glad that he’s holding onto the doorframe still, because right now he doesn’t quite trust his legs to hold him up. But he’s not going to let himself get carried away, not before he knows exactly what this is, despite the fact that he’s biting his tongue almost hard enough to draw blood to stop the stupid grin from creeping up and overtaking his face before he can prevent it.

“I don’t want to be your rebound,” he says, and means it.

“And I don’t want you to be. If I thought that was all this might be, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not easy to be with,” Seb finds himself continuing, fighting against himself not just to fall straight into Jenson’s arms.

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“I’m stubborn as anything.”

“Me too.”

“And arrogant.”

“Not a problem.”

“And opinionated.”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll never admit I’m wrong, and I hate apologising,” he ploughs on, but Jenson just shrugs. “And I’m attention seeking.”

This time Jenson chuckles out his reply. “Have you met me?!”

“And childish.”

“Constantly.”

“I’m difficult, and petty, and an outright pain in the backside. And I’ll sulk.”

“Then I’ll learn to cheer you up.”

“And we _will_ fight.”

“That’s ok, I’m forgiving… And I won’t complain about the makeup sex,” Jenson winks, and Seb’s insides twist in a way that’s so very familiar, but so much _better,_ because it feels like everything is fitting into place somehow. But he can’t stop yet, because there can’t be anything left to chance, nothing that Jenson could discover about him in weeks to come that might make him walk back out of his life, because once Jenson steps in through his front door Seb knows there’s no going back, he wouldn’t be able to get out of this with his heart in any semblance of one piece. So he keeps going.

“And I’ll be jealous.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, this is me after all,” and Jenson is grinning, and Seb can almost see his ego growing back to the size he’s used to it being. “I’ll flirt with everyone though. All the time. I can’t help it.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll want to kiss you in public and spoil you terribly and show you off to everyone at every opportunity.”

“I said I’m attention seeking, can you see me complaining?” Because if Jenson wants to kiss him in the middle of the main street in front of the entire town, he’s not going to turn down a single opportunity.

“And, well, you should know by now, but I’ll be completely oblivious until you outright tell me something…” Jenson shrugs.

“You don’t say…”

“Oh,” he shifts his weight and looks thoroughly apologetic, “and I’m sorry about last time, the whole thing with Nico, I really am. I didn’t know, and, well, I guess I know what it feels like now. Sort of.”

“It’s ok, that’s not important anymore,” Seb dismisses, because it isn’t, not even slightly. And he’s not going to let something that happened so long ago ruin this before it’s even properly got started.

There’s a brief pause, then “What about insisting on long, lazy lie-ins at every opportunity, is that important?”

Seb grins at the thought, as Jenson’s faux-serious look is replaced by his own slightly mischievous smile. “Only if stealing the duvet is.”

“How about that I take three sugars in my coffee?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Energy drinks are disgusting.”

“They are not!” Seb steps forward, across the threshold and places his fingers on Jenson’s lips to shut him up, not that it gets rid of that grin, but he doesn’t want to _ever_ get rid of that grin… The contact sends sparks up his arm, shivers of electricity running down his spine, the hairs on his arms and neck standing up. He could kiss him right now, right here, Jenson is _waiting_ for him to kiss him, he can tell. But he doesn’t, not yet.

“I never give up until I get what I want.”

“I gathered.”

“And I want you.”

“Despite your best attempts to scare me off?”

Seb tries to glare but he can’t, not really, and Jenson is smiling almost apologetically back at him.

“I understand, really I do. You want to make sure I know what I’m getting into. Other than your pants, that is,” Jenson flashes a wicked grin. “But I’m friends with Mark, Seb, you can’t make yourself sound worse than what I’ve already heard.” Seb cringes – he’d forgotten that little fact in the whirlwind of all this. “And I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t at least prepared to make up my own mind. Nothing’s totally perfect, not even me…” and the audible wink is back, “so if you want me, what else are you waiting for? I’m right here.”

“I wasn’t waiting. I was, _making sure_. I am _done_ waiting.”

“About time too,” Jenson smiles, properly, nothing held back, “because so am I,” and that’s it, that’s all of Sebastian’s self-restraint used up, and his arms are winding themselves around Jenson’s neck, pulling him close as Jenson’s hands are on either side of his face, as he finally, _finally_ kisses him.


	76. Chapter 76

The club is only just starting to fill when Kimi arrives the next day – there are already people on the dancefloor, making the most of the space to jive and swing to the music, and there’s a small queue at the bar. Kimi though, being Kimi, has no problems whatsoever in seating himself at the same barstool he was occupying the night before. Tonight it’s Seb up on the platform at the back, already drawing the crowds with his dazzling display routine. He’s got a cheeky grin on his face, and is basking in the attention, all confidence and charisma, and Kimi can see the people in the crowd he singles out to wink or smile at falling in love with him on the spot. He looks by far the happiest that Kimi’s seen him in a long time.

Seb must have spotted Kimi during his routine, even if he didn’t show it, because the moment he’s finished his bows and soaked up the applause he hops down and comes straight over to where Kimi’s sat.

“Surprised to see you back again,” Seb grins teasingly. “Don’t you have the mother of all hangovers?”

“Why would I have a hangover?”

Seb bursts out laughing. He’s positively vibrating with happiness in a way that Kimi doesn’t ever think he’s seen before, totally open and unguarded. “Because you were the drunkest I’ve ever seen you last night! Do you even _remember_ last night? I don’t know _what_ you’d been mixing. You kissed me, you know, in case you’d forgotten…”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Yes you were, Kimi, you could barely stand upright when we left, and then you decided to take the most bizarre route back to your place, and then you locked the door in my face, which I thought was rather ungrateful, and…” Kimi though is just looking at Seb, eyebrows slightly raised, the smallest hint of a smirk just visible at the corners of his mouth, and Seb stops mid-sentence. “But, you were _drunk_ … You _kissed_ me… why did you kiss me if you were sober?? And what was all that about you and me, and getting back together…?” Seb’s voice goes up an octave and sounds more than a little panicked.

Kimi tilts his head to one side. “I never _said_ anything about that.”

Kimi doesn’t seem anything other than completely serious, and Seb stutters a few aborted sounds before he finds himself replaying the night before, examining everything that was said, and realising that Kimi’s telling the truth – he didn’t ever explicitly mention getting back together, just half sentences that were only interpreted that way because of how he was acting, and if that was all an act…

But Kimi isn’t lingering on that part of his explanation. “You and Jenson were getting annoying. Had to do something to kick him into gear. Didn’t expect it to work so well though,” and the eyebrows go up and his smile breaks through at last, one side of his face twitching upwards.

“You mean you made me _carry you up your stairs_ when you were perfectly alright?!” But Seb can’t get genuinely as angry as he’s sure he’s entitled to, not today. “You bastard!” and he settles for smacking Kimi’s arm with the bar cloth, finding himself laughing. “You sneaky son of a bitch, you manipulative arsehole, you absolute… you are the worst, best, _worst_ best friend _ever_ , and I could almost kiss you again…”

“That route _was_ meant to be a shortcut though,” Kimi muses, more to himself than his friend, as Seb keeps laughing.

“Evening!” greets an even more cheery than usual Heikki, hopping onto the seat next to Kimi. “How’s tricks?”

Kimi just nods, his small smile becoming more than just a hint of a smirk, and Heikki beams.

“Excellent! Congratulations to you and Jenson then,” he grins at Seb.

“Wait, you knew too?!”

“Of course I did! You didn’t think Kimi came up with that all by himself, did you? But if you feel like saying thank you,” and Heikki makes his most innocent expression, “a drink or two on the house at least wouldn’t go amiss…”

“Apparently Seb’s idea of saying thank you is kissing me again,” Kimi deadpans.

“Well that’s not very fair, it was my idea too y’know,” Heikki grins mischievously. “And I won’t tell Jenson if you don’t!”

Even Kimi can’t help but grin outright at how horrified Seb looks at every part of that idea.

*

The second night always fills a little slower than the first, as the guestlisters and VIPs indulge in the luxury of their assured entries to roll up in no particular hurry, everyone dealing with the aftereffects of the previous heavy night. After all, everyone knows that the party won’t get properly going for the first couple of hours tonight.

Not everyone’s tardy for the start of day two though – the queue of hopefuls outside the door still starts long before the doors open, and still stretches down the street, and those on the guestlist only for the one night make the most of the early (relative) quiet to guarantee a drink and a seat, and a chance to catch up with people they haven’t seen in months before the night’s music cranks up to full volume and drowns out any chance of a real conversation. So when Robert arrives, unannounced, it’s quiet enough for him to settle himself at the bar, order himself a cocktail from an overjoyed Sebastian, and soon be joined by a whole host of old friends and colleagues; Fernando, Kimi, Vitaly, and even Nick, back from Le Mans for his own brief visit, whilst Mark has time to take a break, leaning on the other side of the bar and listening as Robert tells stories of his travels, interrupted every few lines by a constant stream of wellwishers, every one delighted to see him back in town, however brief his visit, every one wishing him all the best for the rest of his recovery, every one telling him just how much he’s been missed, and enough of them buying his drinks that his wallet doesn’t have to leave his pocket for the rest of the night.

*

They’re right at the front of the queue, IDs at the ready, when Luiz starts swearing to himself, frantically patting himself down and looking panickedly at the ground around them.

“Luiz? Luiz, are you alright?” Max asks.

“I can’t find my credit card…” He’s checked every pocket, every section of his wallet – it’s nowhere to be found. “I don’t have any other money, shit… Urgh, I can’t get in without it, you’ll have to go on without me.”

“What? No, I’m sure we could club together somehow, get you through the door at least…”

“I can’t ask you guys to bail me out. Tonight’s not exactly cheap, I know we’ve all been saving for months for this.”

“You absolutely sure?”

“I’ll join you when I find it, I promise.”

“Alright then. You’d better run, it’ll be full soon!”

“No need to remind me!” Luiz calls back, already sprinting down the street as his friends are let through the velvet rope and up the steps to the club.

*

The night gets inevitably louder and busier, busy enough that when Adrian arrives, another of the night’s surprise guests, it’s easy enough for him and Lewis to avoid each other entirely, despite the significant overlap in the groups of people they both want to spend time with. But Nelson’s back in Nascar tonight, his recent promotion denying him the second night in Fia, so Lewis has Nico pretty much all to himself again, and even Adrian’s unexpected presence isn’t going to stop him from having a decent night out with his best friend, like they used to.

As the crowds grow, Robert leaves the bar, taking Fernando, Kimi, Nick, and Vitaly with him to a table away from the main crush, and leaving Mark to get on with his production line of drinks, whilst on the table over Adrian spots Nico and Paul, almost inseparable as always, and is soon discussing with them his plans to return to the Balti after his year abroad. Rob and his colleagues have claimed the next table along, one with a good view of the dancefloor, where the Brazilians have already gathered, drinks in both hands, and since Vitaly is catching up with an old friend there’s no excuse whatsoever for Bruno not to be right in the middle of their antics tonight, especially with Rubens, Tony, and Lucas all still in town for round two (although, with the amount of sleep and the inverse amount of alcohol they’ve had since last night ended, it’s practically still round one for some of them…).

Dan and Jean Eric turn the music up, alternating their own blend of different genres of rock with the hits and the crowd pleasers and the true classic anthems and the dreadful cheesy numbers, to which the Brazilians shamelessly lead the dance routines, even Dan jumping along in the confined space of the DJ booth, grinning like a maniac, as Jean Eric just looks on, shaking his head sadly as Dan tries to wiggle his hips seductively to the Party Rock Anthem, until he’s tangled up in his various cables, and Jean Eric just has one palm resting on his forehead as he tries to decide whether to laugh or sigh at Dan’s predicament.

*

“Please tell me he knows you’re as hopeless over him as he is over you.”

Rubens leans against the bar next to Jaime and looks up at the young DJ, eyebrows raised.

Jaime knows exactly what Rubens is on about. And this is Rubens, the person who can get a full confession out of anyone just by slinging an arm around their shoulder, so there’s no question of denying it.

He shakes his head, and Rubens sighs.

“Why not?”

“What good will it do?” Jaime says, with a cheerless smile, looking over to where poor Séb is failing horribly to get noticed by any of the bar staff, instead being passed over repeatedly for groups of eager students and their large denomination notes.

“You’d both stop looking like kicked puppies when you think the other can’t see?”

Jaime tries to glare, and summarily fails. “I can’t be what he wants, Rubens.” Jaime toys with saying _deserves_ , but he’s pretty sure Rubens has understood that anyway. Rubens has a knack of knowing what people really mean, especially when they don’t say it out loud.

“ _You’re_ what he wants.”

“I would only hurt him. You know me, fidelity is not my strong point.” Jaime looks down at Rubens. “Especially as we would be thousands of miles apart.” He shrugs. “And he is my best friend, I am not prepared to risk that.”

Rubens cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrows again. “If you say so.”

At that moment Tony turns up with an almost overflowing tray of drinks for Rubens and the other Brazilians (and their hangers on), and Rubens leaves Jaime at the bar with a clap on the shoulder and a promise to catch up somewhere where they can hear each other properly before he heads home.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the night” Séb asks as he reappears, passing Jaime one of the hard-won drinks. “Got your eye on anyone?”

Jaime has managed to get just enough drink in his mouth for him to make an impressively unsophisticated splutter, looking aggrieved even as he mops the front of his shirt, whilst Séb just laughs at him.

“What?! Unless, you and Kimi, you’re not, _exclusive_ are you?”

If Jaime had taken another sip, rather than just staring at his friend, he would have spluttered that one out too, so it’s just as well that he didn’t.

“God no!”

“So what’s the issue? You didn’t see him last night, and he seems busy tonight, and you’re not usually one to wait around if your go-to is too busy for you – usually you’d have been off investigating long ago what else is on offer at a party this big!”

Jaime thinks of all the times he’s left Séb at the bar or the edge of the dancefloor with nothing more than a wink and a nod in the direction of whoever he’s picked up that night as a signal to his friend that he’ll be ‘occupied’ for the rest of the night, and probably won’t be making it home before morning. And hell, if he hasn’t missed Séb so much these past few months that he regrets almost every single one of those moments.

“You know, I don’t think I’m after anyone tonight.”

Séb frowns. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Yes, you bastard, I’m not a complete,” and he waves his hand instead of picking a word, “I can go more than one night in a row without sex!” and he nudges Séb in the ribs possibly a little harder than intended, which escalates briefly into a poking war, and only calms down after Séb’s idle threats of unplugging Jaime’s laptop the next time they’re working a set together. “I would just rather hang out with you, as you are in town so rarely.”

Séb’s still looks more than a little sceptical.

“O-kay…” Séb eyes Jaime suspiciously, wondering what the catch is.

“What?! Is the thought of spending time with me that bad?” Séb looks like he’s genuinely considering the answer for a moment, but Jaime knows better, and is laughing again through his look of mock-indignancy. “Fine then, how’s this, after weeks of sex but no talking with Kimi, I think I’d like a night of talking but no sex with you, deal? So come on, let’s go dancing!”

“Ok, now _that_ I believe, but dancing isn’t talking…!” Séb protests uselessly as Jaime grabs him by the arm and drags him onto the dancefloor.

*

“Anyone know if Luiz’s turned up yet?” Giedo asks.

“Don’t think so…” Max says, looking around just in case they simply hadn’t spotted him yet.

“Damn, he’s missing one hell of a party.”

“I know…”

*

Whilst upstairs the champagne is flowing freely (though thankfully not literally free, or the bar would go bankrupt in hours), gilt-edged crystal glasses never less than half full, and every table occupied with the great, the good, the rich, and the beautiful, it’s downstairs where the party is at its true peak, the music at full volume, the dance floor packed, and the crowd at the bar almost impenetrable as Seb flicks and spins and slices, flawlessly building their signature creations under the swirling lights, practically glowing from being the centre of attention. The booths around the edge of the club are all full, groups of partygoers sharing jugs of cocktails and talking in yells over the music, whilst every quiet, dark corner has at least one couple in it. At Robert’s table there’s now a poker game and a bottle of vodka, because traditions are traditions, even if the venue’s wrong, and even if it isn’t easy to keep tabs on who’s even playing when people are swapping hands and dropping in and out to go dancing or grab refills. Nearby, Jaime and Séb have ended up on a sofa together, talking rather than dancing, and leaving Séb feeling like he’s fallen into some kind of bizarre parallel universe. Some of the younger guests have indulged perhaps a little past their limits, eyes not entirely focussed and leaning heavily on each other as they belt out the words they can remember to the songs they know and try not to stagger over and collapse in a heap all together, but considering it’s their first time at this night, they’ll probably be forgiven even if they do collide with someone. Probably.

On the other side of the dancefloor, near the VIP staircase, Jenson’s shameless flirting has reached new heights, as if being attached once more has made him rediscover the fun in the game without the worry of the end result. And he does so love to make Jake blush like that, especially when David is busy being a gentleman and dancing with Suzi, who is more graceful in their classic spins and twirls than anyone would expect her to be in her tight dress and killer heels. And when Nico joins him in a tag team effort that has Jake trying to hide his face in his glass, Jenson knows everything really is forgiven, somehow, even if he doesn’t know how he deserves it.

*

Seb’s only ‘long’ break can’t be more than twenty minutes, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to spend any time away from Jenson that he doesn’t have to. Though he hadn’t expected Jenson, after a few short minutes spent just leaning up against each other and sharing unhurried kisses, to almost leap up and start tugging him towards the dancefloor.

“Jenson, what are you doing?! I can’t dance!” Seb objects, but he’s not putting up much of a fight as he’s led through the crowds.

“No Seb, you can’t dance _well_ , there’s a difference. Which is ridiculous, you were a DJ, you should have rhythm. Anyway, let me lead, and you’ll be fine.”

“You can’t lead club dancing, Jens…”

“Yes you can, just come here,” Jenson takes Seb’s arm as they come to a stop and firmly places it around his waist, tucking Seb’s hand into his back pocket, then taking Seb’s other hand in his as he puts his own arm around Seb’s back and pulls him close, “hand in my pocket, and hold on like this, shush, don’t complain, just follow me…”

It’s only when Jenson drops a kiss onto the top of his head, and encourages him to rest his head on his shoulder, that Seb decides he could get used to this. Because it’s like a hug, but better, and he’s tight up close to Jenson’s chest, doing nothing but being held and inhaling everything that’s _Jenson_ from his neck and shirt, and it’s easy just to go with it.

They have about a song, possibly two (it’s hard to tell sometimes with the way the tracks are mixed together) before either of them say anything again.

“You see? You’re fine,” Jenson mutters, sounding both smug and encouraging at the same time.

Seb just hums, and closes his eyes. “Better than fine,” he mumbles into the crook of Jenson’s neck.

“You’re telling me…” and Jenson’s voice gets dirty, and when Seb looks up Jenson is looking down at him with a _look_ in his eyes. “How long’s your break?” he murmurs in Seb’s ear.

Seb grins. “Long enough…”

“I think, sod the dancing…”

*

“Is that?” Lucas stops dancing to crane over some people’s heads, peeking between glasses and glowsticks held high.

Bruno joins him on tiptoes. “Hah! It is!”

“Who?” says Rob, not looking up, because Felipe’s right there to look at instead, and that’s much more important right now.

“Look!” Felipe insists, turning Rob’s head in the direction Lucas and Bruno are staring. “You have to look, I cannot see…” and if Rob didn’t know better, it sounded like Felipe’s sentence ended in a muttered “too damn short…”

“Where?” Vitaly asks, despite being taller than almost all of them, and theoretically more able to see what they’re all on about.

“On the dancefloor, over there!” Bruno directs, leaning his head against Vitaly’s as he points.

“You’re kidding!” Rubens says, making the most of a momentary gap in the crowds to catch sight of who they’re all talking about.

“About time!” Tony laughs.

Then Rubens is digging in his pockets for his phone while everyone crowds around, already leaning over his shoulders.

“So who put their money on several months later?!”

*

Vitaly may have discovered dancing, but there’s still only so long he can spend out on the dancefloor, especially when it’s not just him and Bruno by themselves like they were last night. It’s not a problem though, not when there are so many people to catch up with, so when the Brazilians start air-guitaring furiously to some song he doesn’t recognise he makes his excuses and heads back to the table he’s practically taken up residence at tonight. But he doesn’t get quite that far before he spots the person he was going back to see, jacket now on, making his way to the door.

“Robert!” he calls, and his friend turns. “Leaving already?”

“I am sorry, I am not quite fit enough for an all-nighter yet,” Robert shrugs with a smile. “It was good to see everyone though.”

Vitaly nods, even though he wants to say that it was more than just _good_ to see his friend again after so very long.

“Come back soon, Robert. We will be waiting.”

Robert inclines his head as his reply, smiling, and then turns to leave, waving goodbye over his shoulder with his left hand.

*

“After all this, I’m going to be happy to have a few days away from this place!” Christian laughs tiredly. He’s shattered, the relentless pace and ever-increasing pressure of the past few months finally catching up with him, especially since having the repairmen in for the sprinkler system this morning meant he’s not had time to actually sleep, but he’s still smiling, the pride he has for this place almost making him bounce slightly even now. Tonight, unlike last night, is running without a hitch, and he can start to relax and enjoy the night for what it is – a party.

“You’re welcome at the Canteen any time, you know,” Martin says, and it takes a little more effort than he expects to sound casual.

“To be honest, I think I could do with a few days without Stefano too, I’m pretty sure it’s just me but he’s been getting on my nerves recently…”

“I didn’t mean with Stefano, actually.” Christian frowns, and gives Martin one of his all-seeing gazes. “I was thinking just the two of us. For a change.”

When Christian smiles it makes the creases around his eyes multiply. _Laughter lines_ , Martin thinks.

“For sure, why not?” Christian raises his glass in front of his face, and then gives Martin a cock-eyed look over the top, one eyebrow going up. “My place or yours?”

“…We’re not talking about the Canteen or the Bar anymore, are we?”

“Well I didn’t think we were…”

Christian watches the smile creep up Martin’s face, and while Martin would swear that it’s just the warmth of the club, Christian _knows_ he’s blushing, and he’ll be damned if that isn’t more adorable than it should be.

*

“Took them long enough…”

“Didn’t it just?” Monisha laughs, and then leans sideways to call over Stefano’s shoulder. “Ross! Shall we dance, boys? I don’t think we’re going to see much of the other two tonight…”

*

The promenade down the seafront is deserted, and silent other than the eerie shush of the waves onto the beach and the distant bass thud from the Red Bull fading out as they walk together, hand in hand, along the seafront and away from the club. The sky is bright with the full moon, the light bleaching the town below into shades of milky grey and shimmering on the water in the bay beyond.

“Do you not think that we are missing out to leave early like this?”

Bruno shrugs carelessly. The night is still in full swing back at the bar, hours left before the sun will rise and send everyone home at last, but after two brilliant nights of seemingly non-stop partying, enough is enough, and it was a relief to have left it all behind and to be out in the cool and the quiet, with only each other for company. It was only possible to do so much clubbing before the alcohol and adrenaline began to wear thin, leaving behind bodies exhausted from the constant pushing and jostling of the inescapable crowds, legs aching after endless hours of dancing, voices hoarse from shouting over the deafening thumping of the music which left ears ringing and heads hurting, until the thick, sticky air and press of people became oppressive and claustrophobic, the whole experience turning into something to be endured rather than enjoyed. And there was no point in staying if they weren’t enjoying themselves anymore.

“Perhaps. But there are much better things waiting where I’m going now…”

When Bruno looks up he’s wearing his most genuine smile, with an added twinkle visible even just in the moonlight that means Vitaly knows exactly what he’s planning for when they get through their front door.

He tugs on Bruno’s hand to pull him around to face him with a low growl of a noise, slipping his free arm around Bruno’s waist and kissing him thoroughly, a kiss that promises _I’m going to ravish you when I get the first chance_ – slightly messy but familiar and unhurried, knowing they’ve got all the time in the world to make good on that promise.

They break apart but don’t pull away, Bruno resting his forehead against Vitaly’s. Above them the stars are out, only the brightest visible through the moonlight that floods the sky, twinkling quietly above the ocean and the town, and the night air is cold and crisp (though Bruno doesn’t feel it as much as he might after the night’s cocktails). In the far distance they can hear the faint singing of groups of revellers on their way back home, their words lost as their voices echo through the empty streets, along with the remote shrieks and splashes of overambitious skinny dippers under the mistaken impression that the harbour will be a pleasant place for a midnight swim in November… There’s still the thump of the club’s speakers at the very edge of their hearing, and the waves keep hushing onto the shore in their constant, gentle rhythm.

It’s a moment that feels like they’re remembering it even as they’re in it.

“I could stay here forever,” Bruno says, eventually. “Right here.”

“You would get cold,” Vitaly replies, and whilst there’s nothing in his voice to give it away, Bruno knows he’s teasing, looking up to spot that half smile as he starts laughing, and Vitaly joins in almost straight away – Bruno’s laugh is infectious, and Vitaly hasn’t wanted to resist in a long time.

“Hush you. You know what I mean. You always know what I mean.”

“And you. You always know what _I_ mean.”

Neither of them know how they got there, but neither of them are talking about silly comments anymore.

Vitaly’s hand tightens over Bruno’s. “ _Eu te amo_ ,” he says, and the syllables sound strange in his accent and the pronunciation is off, but it tugs at something in Bruno’s chest and he couldn’t look away if he’d wanted to, because whilst Bruno might declare every emotion at every opportunity, Vitaly rarely says this even in his own language.

Bruno rests his hand against Vitaly’s cheek, touching their noses together before pressing the gentlest of kisses to his lips, closed-lipped and almost chaste, but overflowing with tenderness.

“ _Ya tebya lyublyu_ ,” he replies, quietly, trying not to trip over the unfamiliar sounds. He’s never quite been sure if he should say it before now, because he knows just as well as Vitaly does that this way round it means something more than it’s ever meant before.

The last vowel has barely faded into silence before Vitaly closes the gap between them, holding Bruno close against him, embracing him totally, feeling the heat of his body warm like embers in the chill night air that’s starting to bite at his fingertips, and kissing him, with none of the softness but with all of the emotion of the one only moments before, insistent but undemanding, protective and proud and fierce with all the meaning he’s trying to convey in one simple action.

Neither of them say anything when it ends, just looking at each other. They’ve said all they need to.

Vitaly doesn’t take his eyes off the man in front of him, but he lifts Bruno’s hand to his lips and drops a kiss onto it. “I think perhaps we should go home now,” he almost murmurs, and lets one eyebrow rise ever so slightly to add the same second layer of meaning that Bruno had done a few moments ago.

Bruno keeps looking up at him, a smile breaking out across his face like there’s nothing in the world he could be more happy about, but with a serious, genuine look in his eyes making it clear he’s replying to something much bigger than just Vitaly’s implication.

“We _are_ home.”

Then somehow the grin gets even larger, and the seriousness falls away. “But if you mean do I want to get somewhere warm? Then yes please!” and he’s rubbing his arms through his thin shirt and jacket and Vitaly is smiling again, his slightly condensed smile that never quite looks like he wants to let it out entirely, as Bruno takes his hand and links their fingers. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Bruno says softly, and they slip away together into the darkness of the backstreets, hand in hand.

*

Dan and Jean-Eric’s set has got heavier as the night has worn on, but it’s the last few songs now and they’re back onto the crowd-pleasers, getting everyone back onto the dancefloor for the close of RB8. There’s light starting to filter in around the edges of the blackout blinds, and the terrace outside is shadowy in milky grey morning sunlight.

The final song finishes, its last notes dragging out as long as possible, accompanied by explosions of glitter and fluttering confetti, and for a moment every single light goes out, and in the darkness the only sounds in the club are the shrieking cheers of the crowd and their applause, thundering on even when the house lights start to come up and Christian climbs onto the bar to announce that RB8 is over, thanking everyone for making it the best one yet.

The crowds slowly spill out onto the street, voices raised high above normal levels still as the laughing, singing, and sleep-deprived chatter compete against the ringing in their ears, some stumbling out, tired enough to sleep right there on the pavement, others hurrying off to knock back as much coffee as is physically possible before they have to start normal shifts in normal jobs. Café Ferrari will be open for business as usual – they can’t afford to miss out on the morning rush for caffeine after an all-nighter as popular as RB8 – as will MTCakes, with breakfast pastries to serve to famished clubbers who have survived off energy drinks and alcohol for perhaps a little too long to be good for them, and even Mercedes has a special breakfast menu for the VIPs in town.

From where he’s leaning against the railing outside VIP Christian watches the dancefloor empty gradually below him, as Dan and Jean-Eric pack up their disks and kit and the waitresses carry mind-bogglingly tall piles of glasses back to the bar, where Seb, Heikki, and Mark are putting bottles away and loading the dishwashers.

“Over for another year then?” Stefano asks, standing alongside Christian at the railing, the only two left in VIP by this point.

“Over indeed,” Christian replies. “Guys!” he calls to his employees below. “Good job everyone, as usual. Cleanup can wait until tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp. Until then, get some rest,” and he waves them away as they call up their thanks.

“So what now?

“Breakfast I think. Martin promised something about pastries and tea at MTCakes… Seems like the appropriate place to end the weekend. I’m pretty sure we had our post- _opening_ -night breakfast there too this year…” Christian’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Yes, Martin, hullo. We’re just on our way, you’d better have a table for us!”


	77. Epilogue

It’s spring again in Fia. The winter snows have melted, and previously quiet streets are thronged with people once more, the leaves a green haze on the trees and the sky scattered with fast-moving cotton-wool clouds, bright sunshine warming the air.

Café Ferrari is heaving today, Fernando and Felipe alternating the till and the coffee machines as they churn out drinks like a well-oiled machine to customer after customer, every cup served with a smile and their own little personal flourish. Behind them on the wall the specials board lists all the old favourites – the Ascari Special, the Enzo Espresso, and the Maranello Mocha – alongside Felipe and Fernando’s popular signature drinks; the Café Interlagos, the Türk Kahvesi, the Malaysian Miracle, and the Caffe Tomita.

Inside, the café is a familiar cacophony of the hissing of the milk-frother, the churning of the grinders, the banging of emptying the hoppers, the whirring clatter of the ice blenders, the clinking of china and glass, and the mysterious grunging and whooshing of the coffee machines, all mixed with the babble of chatter and laughter, the scraping of chairs on the floor as they’re dragged into huge groups around tiny tables, and the chirping of mobile phones.

By the window, Christian and Martin are reclining in armchairs, sharing tea from a carbon fibre teapot, and arguing about whether that makes the tea taste better or worse, but agreeing that Stefano needs to order some more blends, and telling him so when he appears out the back offices and joins them. Nearby, Checo (having at last ended his self-imposed ban) and Esteban are sat together on one of the squishy leather sofas that sink in the middle so much that they can’t help but end up leaning right up against each other (not that either of them are really complaining about that…) as they share a whipped-cream-topped mocha. Near the door Kamui and Vitaly are at a high table, both giggling at how far off the ground Kamui’s legs dangle compared to Vitaly’s, and discussing how much the drinks have changed since they first found this place, all those years ago, when Fernando had worked at that little French place, and they had become regulars at Honda Sushi, and that other Japanese place, what was it called? _Toyota,_ of course, that was it.

Out on the terrace the boys from BBCruises are laughing at the choice of drinks David just ordered for them, Eddie blustering at his tiny espresso cup whilst Jake wonders out loud if he should drink or bath in his gigantic mug. While on the adjacent table, Jenson and Seb share a plate of cakes, blobbing icing on each other’s noses, and continually interrupting everytime David speaks, until Eddie tells them all to grow up, and all five of them haul their chairs together to chat properly. Or as close to properly as the five of them will ever achieve… Then Mark turns up, his usual order in hand, abandoning his usual armchair indoors for a chair turned backwards in the sun of the patio and the company of a remarkably close group of friends.

Heikki and Kimi are at their own table, Heikki stretching in the sunlight, whilst Kimi stays in the shade of the huge red parasol, his sunglasses and cap still on, Heikki laughing at the Prancing Horse branded sugar (what does a horse have to do with sugar anyway?) and Kimi just smiling (and whether that’s at what Heikki’s talking about, or just at Heikki himself is completely irrelevant really), both of them sipping their iced lattes. Sébastien is back for a weekend too, so he and Jaime are enjoying their coffees in the sunshine like the old days, when they’d come for a drink after being up all night for their sets, and Jaime most definitely did not just add something from his hip flask to both their cups…

Beyond the terrace, on a bench beside the road, perched on the back and with his feet on the seat, Bruno is chatting away on the phone to Karun – they may have broken up long ago, but they’re still friends, and always will be. And he’s going to be back in town this weekend, so is Bruno up for coffee? Well that’s a stupid question, he laughs, of course he is.

From further up the road come the high voices of Pedro’s two eldest kids, running down the street and arguing about which flavour of ice-cream at the Lotus Parlour is the best, before running straight back again and demanding that daddy (who still has his youngest in his arms) settle the argument for them. He isn’t going to tell them off for being over excited today though – having wrangled against all the odds a part time job at Café Ferrari of all places, the future is looking decidedly less bleak than it did just a few months back, and he’s taking all three of them out for a sundae of their choice each, to celebrate.

Black Ices itself is just opening for the day, Romain lugging tubs of Kimi’s fresh ice cream and sorbet out from the freezers and into the displays whilst Jerome opens the parasols and rearranges the tables outside. Just in time too, because Charles and Jules have just arrived, looking to start their days with Belgian waffles or French crêpes, which they’ll both then insist the boys in the black aprons come and share with them, because no one else is around at this time of the morning, so why not? Jean-Eric used to join them for breakfast, but he was working last night, so he’s probably still in bed. Though he’s most likely not exactly sleeping right now, not since Dan got his braces off…

On the other side of town, the kitchens at Mercedes are already busy, Lewis and Nico working together with Ross on new recipes for the year – they’ve got a lot of work to do on the menu before the tourist season really gets underway. Whilst not far from there, behind the leaded windows of Sauber, Nico is giving Paul practically a _guided tour_ of the liqueur chocolates counter, Monisha just leaning against the door through to the storerooms and smiling fondly at them - it’s still too early in the day for the shop to get properly busy, so she’ll indulge her new recruit for now. And with Paul still at the Balti his and Nico’s hours don’t even match up anymore, so Monisha reckons they’ll be selling a lot of hot chocolate to a certain Scot over the next few months, whatever the weather.

Beyond that is the rest of Fia, bathed in sunshine – the uneven, cobbled back streets, cool between Italianate architecture, the wide boulevards and avenues that are dotted with benches and trees that sway and rustle in the warm breeze, the shining white render and sparkling glass of the beach-front apartments, the marina filled with yachts and motorboats, and the golden sandy beach where the waves hush onto the shore.

If you head up the coast, past the Sid Watkins Memorial Hospital, you’ll find the Ayrton Lakes, known throughout the continent as the best spot for a tranquil weekend’s fishing for miles around. Beyond that, you’ll reach Indy, then inland, you’ll find Tour Britannia and Tour Deutsch, the twin towns (the latter being where Paul grew up), and where the land flattens, there’s Moto, with its rows of bikes on every corner. Keep on going, and you’ll find Nascar, a rough and ready type of town, that still has a frontier feel to it, and where Nelson is making a new life for himself. In the mountains and the forests, up treacherous tracks and rough roads, is Rally, where Robert has decided to stay, for a little while longer at least. And if you go right up north, you’ll reach Le Mans, where for a single day at the extreme ends of each year, the sun never sets, or never rises, and they stay up all day on the beaches or all night in the clubs to party.

Back in Fia though, the morning rush at Café Ferrari is coming to an end for today. The boys from BBCruises are due at the station soon to meet Suzi, before Gary arrives with the Red Button, and they all head off on the first cruise of the year, and Jenson has to hurry back to MTCakes, so Seb will join Kimi and Heikki, and Mark won’t have long to wait before Fernando will join him outside in the sunshine. And there may be precisely nothing broken at the café today, but Rob has just turned up, with a cheery hullo to an exiting Fernando as they meet at the door - some days he just can’t wait until the evenings to see Felipe again. But it wouldn’t be Ferrari without the two of them, Rob perched at the counter, Felipe getting on with what he does best, better than anyone else in town, and keeping each other company with idle chatter that even Stefano can’t bring himself to complain about.

“Morning Mr Domenicali,” Rob will greet the café’s boss, as the manager pauses briefly at the register whilst on his way to the back offices. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good, yes, thank you. Everything is okay here?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. Isn’t it Felipe?”

They’ll catch each other’s eye, and Felipe will grin, cheeky and bright, carefree and sincere, brimming with happiness, his eyes creasing at the corners; everything Rob adores about him in that one expression.

“For sure, everything is perfect.”

Rob will smile back, warm and proud and with his eyes twinkling, lips pressed together even as the corners of his mouth quirk up, like he’s trying not to laugh; everything _Felipe_ adores about _him._

“Couldn’t have put it better myself, sunshine.”

  
  


**END.**


End file.
